Tempered
by deeedeee
Summary: Mrs Hughes, Mr Carson, the seaside, and what happens afterward. No Season 5 spoilers.
1. Chapter 1: flux

**A/N This is another fic inspired by that delicious beach scene at the end of Series 4.**

**Many many thanks to the lovely kouw for beta'ing this for me!  
Please take the time to leave a review - I would love to know what you all think about this. Thank you!**

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**Chapter 1. Flux**

**temper**: (_transitive verb_) to bring to a suitable state by mixing in or adding a usually liquid ingredient*

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He feels lost, out of his element. His element is the house, in the wood of its beams, the stone of its foundations. He is at home in the cool and solid certainty of the wine cellar. Here in the presence of lulling waves and warm sun, it is no surprise he feels unsteady. It is no surprise either that she is confident navigating in all this flux, this light and wind.

She turns to him as he hesitates, and challenges him (she always challenges him, doesn't she, always gently pushing; that last little touch of the postcard on his board had toppled another grain of sand from his disintegrating walls).

"Come on! I dare ye!"

She is sure his maddening stone walls are coming apart. She has been washing away at his foundations for quite some time now, gently eroding the facade. She will not make them crack, no, she does not wish anything so violent on him. But slowly, so slowly, the barriers are falling away and he is becoming more open, and someday (_perhaps soon, yes, she hopes so_) she will show him her secret heart, wrap herself around him, hold him close to her, never let him go.

The sand under his feet is being swept away bit by bit with every little wave. Maybe that's why the water feels so dire for him; maybe on some level he knows. He has been in his role for such a long time. He is an ancient oak, deeply rooted in the earth, steady, unmoving, and all of this change is shaking him to his roots. He thinks this, madly, as the cool water (_so shocking, so alive_) flows around him.

This wind, this water, this sun have made her bold. But it isn't just that. Her new boldness comes with the change of the season from winter to spring to summer, but also from this change in their rhythm, in the chance to spend the Season in London. Staying at Downton for the Season is less work, with fewer petty aristocratic emergencies to deal with, but it's a lonely time as well. She has been glad of this time with their downstairs family_ (and especially with him, of course; she has always missed his company when the family were away, but she has felt that absence even more keenly since the time he sang for her in his silver pantry)._

She knows how much she can push him, and when. (_Usually she does. It still stings to think of the time he told her not to get sentimental_. _At some point, maybe, she'll talk to him about that. Confront him. Gently, gently, hoping he won't shut down and stare at the wall like he usually does... maybe someday, after they've made love and his body is loose and tangled with hers.)_

But it will do her no good now to get ahead of herself.

What a figure he strikes, standing there, waggling those fingers and worrying. Of course he would worry. The sound he made when the water rushed to meet of his feet, still warm from the confines of his dignified shoes, was a sound of shock, then of grudging, tentative enjoyment. He will try this, he will venture in, but only just. He needs her help.

He looks at her for a moment, looks away. He cannot deal with the sight of her blouse moving in the wind, whipping against the firm contours of her corset. Normally her clothing is dark, immobile, but the soft fabric is moving against her now. _Caressing_ her. The word jumps to his mind and he struggles to push it away. Tries not to think about how it might feel to put his hand there, on the narrowest part of her waist, slide the blouse against her corset, rest his fingertips against the small of her back. What it might be like to free her body from the confines of bone and cloth.

He drags his mind back to the present, frets about the banal instead. "But - If I get my trousers wet?"

Ridiculous man. Wet wool is a nightmare; she will freely admit it, but who can care on such a beautiful day? Who can bother with momentary irritations when the two of them are standing here on the brink of something, enjoying this tiny sliver of freedom and the delicious feeling of salt waves against bare skin?

"If you get them wet, we'll dry them!"

He frowns, fidgets. She doesn't seem to understand the gravity of this situation. He might slip away if he keeps moving forward, deeper into these moving waters. _Help me. I want to move forward, but I am afraid._ _Make it better. I'm lost, or I will be. Help._

"Suppose I fall over?" _Of course he is fretting about falling over in the gentlest of waves, _she thinks.

"Suppose a bomb goes off? Suppose we're hit by a falling star?" _It's too easy to tease him_. "You can hold my hand. Then we'll both go in together."

_He really does need her help._ He knows this; she realizes it as he carefully steps toward her. He tests every step, as if every move forward held unknown perils.

"I think I will hold your hand, er - it will make me feel steadier."

The words come out before she even thinks about them: "You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady."

He is stunned. _She has never sounded like that. How has he never heard the music in her voice before?_

She is smiling, looking at him, waiting for his reaction. Hoping it will be nice, that he'll play along, not do something irritating and shut her out again.

He feels almost steady again (_almost_)as he responds, frowning, squaring his shoulders. "I don't know how, but you managed to make that sound a little risqué."

But she's laughing now. _Risqué._ He's taken the bait. He's tried to fortify his walls, but they are bending too, the wood grain softening in the water, the jagged edges smoothed down.

_Just look at him there, all put-on sternness_. Suddenly she sees how he must have been as a little boy. Serious, studious. He stands there in his rolled-up trousers and his bare feet, vulnerable in the shifting sands. He is entirely unconvincing in his disapproval, _This is all new, guide me, I am swaying and I am teetering and this ground is unsteady._

Her laughter is audible for only an instant, but her body delights in it, curving against the wind, shaking out what remains of dusty years of rejection and letting them drift away in the salty water.

"And if I did?"

She holds out her hand and he takes it. She is warm, she is strong, she is supple and knowing and sure in this water; she is telling him something else and he must listen, drag part of himself back to his ears as his attention has all rushed to his left hand, his skin pressed against hers, her fingers moving, gripping his, finding a firmer hold. He stares at their hands, at her face.

"We're getting on, Mr Carson, you and I. We can afford to live a little."

He is still staring. He steps slowly, his face frozen as she nods, a silly, exaggerated nod, smiling up at him from below the rim of her hat.

They wade, together. Here and now it is simple, lovely. In this sea and this wind and this sun, after the resolution of so many fears, it is so easy, so logical, so obvious to her that his hand should be in hers, warm and strong. They step forward together, slowly. She catches his eye and he smiles at her, his mouth closed but his eyes crinkling, mild. Happy. He looks like a man now, just a man, a lovely man freed from white tie and tea trays. She resists the urge to reach up, stroke his cheek with her free hand, press herself to him, taste his smile. She is sure she is blushing, and she looks down again as they continue their slow progress.

He is reeling from the feel of her skin against his, the smooth softness, the heat of her. The look in her eyes almost undoes him, and he gasps slightly when she looks down again. Losing contact with those eyes is physical pain, withdrawal, starvation. He wishes he could loop her arm through his, hold her just that little bit closer. Surely it wouldn't be too improper - it would be like walking to church together in icy winter, like sharing tea and wine, nothing over the line. But he is afraid, so he keeps walking, his hand in hers. Until she does it for them, takes his arm, moves closer and his heart is pounding. They keep going.

"Are you enjoying your time at the beach, Mr Carson? I know it wasn't your first choice."

"Yes, ah, well, I do find it to be quite - a _new_ experience. The staff certainly are enjoying themselves."

She rolls her eyes. There is little that interests her less at the moment than whether or not the staff are enjoying themselves. They walk on, together.

He looks down at her; she is smiling at the waves at their feet, biting her lower lip, and she looks up again at him with those bright beautiful eyes, and sees the warmth in his. Suddenly she feels a bit unsteady herself. She speaks, tries to put all of - _this -_ into words.

"You really can, you know. Hold my hand."

"I - er. Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

A pause. She curses inwardly, frowns down at their feet, still moving. _He is not helping_.

He slows his pace.

"I don't expect you to understand why," he continues carefully, "but that does mean a lot to me." _I want to hold your hand always. I love you. Never leave me. Please hear the words I can't say._

She stops, looks up at him, feels a twinge in her heart for this lovely man who is venturing so far from shore for her. She gives him a tiny smile, wants to tell him that he's safe. That his heart is safe with her. That her heart has been in his hands for years, now, decades.

"Perhaps we should -"

"Would you like to -"

They smile, laugh a bit. She starts again: "Perhaps we should head back to shore, Mr Carson. The water is getting a bit deep here."

"If you wish, Mrs Hughes. I know I wouldn't mind being on dry land again."

"Yes. But I do hope you'll tell me more about your mysterious whys and wherefores once we're back on solid ground."

There it is again, the music in her voice. The lilting tones, the drawn-out vowels and rolling r's of her lovely brogue. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. She hopes he will not slam the doors in her face again.

She releases him gently to allow them to turn around, and his arm feels cold where her hand has been. They shift slowly, and when they are both facing the shore again, she looks up at him from the corner of her eye. She worries her lip again, and freezes when she sees the look in his eyes. He is staring at her. At her mouth, and his eyes look desperate, hungry.

"Are you alright, Mr Carson?"

He has been caught out and he knows it. He blinks, shakes his head lightly to clear it, clears his throat. "Yes, yes, of course. Shall we…?" He offers her his other arm, and she slowly takes it.

Their hearts are pounding together as they make their way back to shore.

TBC

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* definition via Merriam-Webster


	2. Chapter 2: fervent

**A/N Many thanks again to the wonderful kouw for beta'ing.**

**Thank you all so very much for the kind reviews! I appreciate it so much; it really makes my day. I'm glad you all like it so far; I hope you like how it continues. I do my best to respond to all of the reviews, except for guest reviewers (and I would if I could)! Many many thanks!**

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**Chapter 2. Fervent**

**temper**: (_noun_) suitable proportion or balance of qualities: a middle state between extremes

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They walk back together, their arms linked, hearts pounding, and neither wants to let go as they reach the shore. They break apart, though. It wouldn't do to give the staff the wrong impression. (And they both try to ignore the question of what _exactly_ that wrong impression might be. That they are in love? That they are the best of friends, old friends, best-matched companions, filled to the brim with unspoken tension? Each on fire from the touch of the other, doing their best to keep it hidden?)

She is biting her lip again, and he looks down at her. He would like to taste that lip, to run his thumb over it, touch her face with worshipful fingertips. He is worried. He doesn't want to do anything untoward. (_He does, he really does, he wants to do so many improper things, and he wishes they were in private so he could - what? kiss her? Maybe. Find out if she wants this too, wants this as badly as he does. He wants to kiss her hand. Maybe today he can do that, he can kiss her hand_.)

They keep going. He is carrying the blanket they have nicked from the stack next to Mrs Patmore. They'd earned a smile and nod from the cook for their trouble; she is happy to see them inching closer to one another after all these years. She'd wanted to wink at them but she knows better than to push them that much. She has seen how the housekeeper and the butler dance around each other, knows how terrified he was at the thought of losing her, how much she would have missed him if he'd actually left for Haxby. Knows that it is a tender, fragile thing between them, and she will not intrude with smirks and winks. (_Maybe someday when those two are finally married, then she will indulge in that, but not yet, no; best leave them to it and see what happens_.)

They put their shoes back on and wander away from the others, stopping at a vendor to buy a bottle of lemonade. Anna and Mr Bates are walking together as well. The two pairs exchange smiles and nods. Mrs Hughes sees Anna's eyes sparkle in a little smile at the two of them, stores it away to cherish later. It is a heartrendingly sweet thing to see those two together, Mrs Hughes thinks, so in love and at ease with one another. The contrast is stark between the suffering the Bateses have been through and the simple loveliness of their walking together today, sharing an ice at the seaside.

They walk on, find an empty stretch of beach that is separated from the rest by distance and an outcropping of rock. They decide together to lay out the blanket there, sit down, and remove shoes and socks again, eager to enjoy the feeling of sand against bare skin. He pops open the swing-top on the bottle and hands it to her. She takes a sip, smiles, nods. Hands him the bottle. He takes it from her, sips from it, his lips on the bottle where hers have just been, and now it is she who stares at his mouth. His lips, soft against the hard glass. His throat, swallowing the drink they share. She would like to lean close, run her fingers through his hair, press her lips against his pulse. She wonders if he will tell her more about what he'd said when they were standing in the water. She decides not to push it (_not just yet_). She hopes she won't have to. She is tired of pushing alone.

They pass the bottle back and forth, sitting in companionable silence and watching the sea. She closes up the bottle again when they have drunk half of it, sticks it in the sand within easy reach behind their blanket.

He leans back on his hands. He has been careful not to touch her fingers while passing the bottle; years of training have taught him this and it is his habit to pass objects without contact, to help the ladies with their coats without touching them. But oh, how he wants to touch her again. Still, there is something he needs to know, and he needs to be bold now, needs to break free just a little bit from his restraint. His easy posture belies the pounding of his heart as he gathers his courage to speak.

"Mrs Hughes, might I ask you something?"

"Yes, Mr Carson?"

"What exactly did you mean when you said we can afford to live a little?"

She has never seen him so relaxed, and he is beautiful to her (_he is always beautiful to her, this man of silver and stone, oak and wine. But he is especially lovely to her in this moment, leaning back, eyes closed, long legs stretched out, bare feet toying in the sand_). She is sitting with her legs tucked to one side, and she leans over to him, reaches up to caress his cheek with the tips of her fingers. He gasps in alarm; his eyes snap open. But he trusts her and he closes his eyes again and leans into her hand, gives a low sigh of pleasure. She cups his jaw lightly, runs her thumb over his bottom lip, and he opens his mouth just slightly to take a shaking breath. She dips her thumb into his mouth, just a tiny bit, grazes it along his lower teeth, and he just barely touches it with the tip of his tongue, rests his upper teeth on it, gasps as she retreats. His eyes open and he sees her, a little smile on her lips and a mischievous spark in her eyes.

"I meant something like that, Mr Carson. That and more."

He sits up, freeing both of his hands, and she slips out of his mouth, starts to move her hand away. Her fingers are leaving his face, breaking contact, and he cannot have that, no - so he catches her hand in one of his, holds it to his mouth, presses a rough kiss into her palm. Her skin is soft and he is overwhelmed by the light, clean scent of her. He opens his mouth, lightly strokes her inner wrist with his tongue, tastes her. She lets out a low moan and he wants more, needs more of her, the feel of her against his mouth, so he uses his free hand to open the button on her cuff. He rolls her sleeve back, pushes it up and worships the skin of her forearm, kisses the inside of her elbow, hears her breathe his name.

He cannot quite believe his boldness; cannot fathom what she has done to him with her eyes, her hands, her lilting voice, or what she is doing to him now with the salt taste of her skin, the tang of her sweat. Thinks it might be time to ask her, now. After all this time, the terror and the relief, the shared tea and wine. He has the ring in his bedroom; he has had it ready for years.

But she is moving closer to him and he is unsteady and off-balance and this is (_going too far; this is improper_) delicious and he cannot help but follow her lead (_he wants to follow her lead; he always has_) as she pushes him gently back onto the blanket and leans over him. He has her wrist in his hand, but she is pushing his hand back and it lands next to his head on the soft blanket and she is leaning over him and her lips are so close to his and they are going to do it, they are going to kiss for the first time ever, right here on the blanket, on this warm sand.

"Mrs Hughes! Mr Carson! Are you there? It's time to get going; the things are mostly packed."

They startle apart, sit up, look around. It is Anna, and she does not come looking for them outright, but calls for them from the other side of the rocks. _Bless her,_ she thinks, and she calls out her thanks to Anna. He is silent and she nudges him, stares at him with a small smile and wide eyes.

He looks at her for an instant, confused, and she cocks her head toward the sound of Anna's voice. He understands that it will seem strange if hers is the only response Anna hears.

"Ah yes, thank you, Anna. We shall be with you presently," he calls out, attempting his usual authoritative tone. Then he adds quietly, "Thank goodness it was Anna." He takes a deep breath, exhales, closes his eyes. He slumps a little, pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Mr Carson, are you alright?" _Do not, do not shut down on me now, infuriating man, not when we've come so close._

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes, I've just got a bit of a headache suddenly."

"Well, we'll get you a headache powder once we get back to Grantham House." She reaches out to him with both hands and rubs his temples gently. He sighs again and relaxes into the embrace of her hands. She plants a kiss on his forehead and he smiles.

He sighs. "Thank you, Mrs Hughes; that is helping quite a bit."

"You're welcome, Mr Carson." She is screaming inside for him to sit with her, stay a bit, but he is already standing, taking up the edges of the blanket, puttering. Still, she resists the urge to push him further; it has been an extraordinary day and she does not want to frighten him away. As frustrating as it is for her to cater to his feelings in this way, it works to her advantage as well. It is self-preservation for her not to run out on a limb every day, not to risk heartbreak every time she wishes he would say more, do more.

So they work together to fold up the blanket. As they complete the last fold, they come together, chest to chest. She bites her lip. He fusses with the edges of the blanket. She can tell that he wants to say something.

He feels like he has words caught in his teeth. He wants her, very badly, but he desperately wants to do right by her, and he has been thinking of these words for ten years, longer. Since she smiled at him with the fair-day doll in her hand, told him she'd refused Joe Burns. Today - well, today is different from all of their other days. They have held hands today; he has kissed her skin and she has touched his mouth gently, demandingly, sensually. Today he thinks the time just might be right.

He thinks he knows what her answer will be. He tells himself that it's now or never. He gathers his courage again, takes a deep breath. He has never been more terrified.

"Mrs Hughes, there's something I want to ask you. Would you - ahem. I mean, I would be honored if you would give me the honor of, er…"

She looks up at him kindly, her face open and smiling. Waiting.

He pauses. He is doing this all wrong, he thinks, and he takes the blanket and places it on the ground, takes both of her hands in his, and drops to one knee. Takes another deep breath.

"Mrs Hughes, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"

She's raising her eyebrows at him, her mouth slightly open, but somehow she doesn't look surprised. Tears are just beginning to form in her eyes and he panics, backpedals.

"I know - this must feel quite sudden; it has been a long time coming and I'm sorry to spring this on you at such an inopportune moment - " He begins to explain, to apologize; the others will be waiting for them; they ought to be going, but she is having none of _that_. She shakes her head quickly and stops him with gentle fingertips against his mouth.

"Of course I will marry you, Mr Carson." He sighs, sags with relief, head down, breathes in, looks up at her again. She is looking down at him with tears in her eyes and her smile is a bright, beautiful thing. "I've been waiting for you to ask me that for years. Decades. It's only ever been you whom I've wanted, Mr Carson. Only you whom I've loved."

Now he's rising to his feet, reaching for her, returning her words of love. She's pulling him up, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, and his arms are around her body, her waist, crushing her to him. They pull apart for just a moment and then the restraint is gone, it's them coming together in a searing kiss, it's hands clutching, tangling in his hair, disheveling her hat. It's tongues tasting one another for the first time, it's his hand on her bottom and her hand behind his head, pulling him closer, always closer. They are breathless.

They break the kiss and rest their foreheads together, her hands on his shoulders, his around her waist.

"I want you, Mr Carson, more than ever before, but I'm afraid we must be off or the others will really start to wonder."

"And I have wanted you more than I can bear." He raises his head, looks into her eyes. "Would you… would you meet me in the wine cellar tonight, after the servants' dinner?"

_The wine cellar?_ She is intrigued. She has been in the wine cellar at Grantham House before; it is a solid place and he should be comfortable there. A shiver runs through her at the thought of finally being alone together. She nods.

"I would meet you anywhere."

TBC

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A/N: I've lifted things from a few of my favorite fics for this one, so I'd like to give credit where it's due.

"I've wanted you more than I can bear" is straight out of "The Incident at the Servants' Ball" (thank you hemmingweigh!)

Lots of things from kouw and sensitivebore (in tone, content, etc. Thank you, ladies!)

The definition is from Merriam-Webster again.


	3. Chapter 3: la follia

After their time at the beach, Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes meet privately in the wine cellar to continue their conversation.

**A/N: HUGE thanks to kouw for beta'ing everything in this work so far! It would have been ****unreadable**** without her. **Seriously. It was a squicky mess before she got to it. It was also the first fanfic I wrote, so there was a lot to get out of my system. Chapters 1 and 2 were written afterward.

Have you listened to La Follia yet? Go find it on YouTube if you haven't. Corelli's interpretation of "La Follia." And then Vivaldi's version. And then just listen to them on repeat until your head explodes from the joy. Maybe your pants will explode too. Let me know if they do.

**This one is a solid M. Smut ahead. Enjoy.**

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**Chapter 3. La Follia**

**temper **(_noun_) state of feeling or frame of mind at a particular time, usually dominated by a single strong emotion

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They've waded into the sea together this afternoon, holding hands for the first time (unless they count the night Lady Sybil died, when she had laid a tentative hand on his arm, desperate for something, a connection; he was desperate enough finally to reach out to her as well, covering her hand with his. But this was different, wasn't it? This time no tragedy had pushed them together, no blinding horror, no death of one so young. This was something much lighter, much older, something all their own). They've declared their love, their intentions, even; they've promised themselves to one another and each is hoping that this is enough to make the other feel decent and justified in the intensity of their wanting. Because they have both had enough and more of their restraint.

The wind and water had been delicious around them, the sun bright and healing. All of that had refreshed her to no end and destabilized him. A man of stone and wood, of heavy foundation and slow growth. The water rushing around his feet had made him feel unsteady indeed and he had been grateful for her extended hand, her offer. Her sea legs.

Finally they are alone; the staff have gone up to an early bedtime, happy and exhausted from the day spent outdoors in the sun. Here they are in this cave. In his element, it would seem. They are still in their clothing from the outing; her Ladyship has given them the whole day off and they have not needed to change for dinner.

He hesitates in this moment. She does not. She reaches up to her hair, pulls one pin out of it, and presses it into his hand. He reaches up to her hair, tentatively, gently reaches in and pulls out the next pin, and the next. All of them he holds tightly in his hand, careful not to drop them, not to squander any of this gift she's giving him. When his hand is full of them, he reaches out and places them in a careful parallel pile on a low wine rack. He turns back to her and she undoes his necktie, holding the ends of it in one hand as his fingers find their way behind her head, to the back of her neck. He caresses the soft skin there, rubbing his thumbs against her temples and she shivers with the sensation.

She looks up at him, holding his gaze, a tiny smile curling the corner of her mouth. Then she pulls his necktie, bringing him down to her, and kisses him hard, reaches up with her other hand to grasp the back of his neck, and he lets out a low moan. One by one the rest of the pins come out, and these he tucks away in his pocket as the two of them stumble to the wall, she backward, he forward, until he has her pinned there. Her hands are in his hair, then they are undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers tasting the softness of his shirt. She cannot get the waistcoat off him entirely with his hands in her hair; she does not care. Instead she takes the braces from his shoulders, starts on the buttons of his shirt.

He has never seen her hair down, never touched it before today - only in the fantasies during the nights he could not sleep for thinking of her. Even then it was difficult to imagine going further than this; his imagination is vivid but his training is impeccable. Her hair - the luscious silk of it, the heavy waves coming undone as he takes pin after pin out, and the heady coconut scent of it - all of this is overwhelming to his senses. He is almost done, he is done, the last pin is in his pocket and he leans in. His lips are on her neck, his nose in her hair, and she grasps his shoulders, his chest, his shirt is half undone and he breaks contact with her for just a second to shrug his waistcoat off, toss it onto another wine rack, pull his braces back up.

She looks at him, irritated, and he gives her a wicked little smile, dips down, touches her lips lightly with his. He is tugging her hair back, holding it firmly. He is keeping her from kissing him, and she shivers with the unexpected pleasure of this new kind of restraint. He uses his other hand to begin undoing the buttons of her soft cotton blouse. His lips are leaving hers but he is still holding her hair, and he is peeling back the blouse, laying bare all that skin he's wanted to taste for so long. She is exposed, in shift and corset, her cheeks flushed, breathing fast in the flickering yellow light, and then his mouth is hot, insistent, kissing the hollow between collarbone and neck. His hands are everywhere. He releases her hair, and she shudders, bites her lip, melts against him, but he is holding her tightly, pulling her away from the wall.

She is luscious, every sensation he could have imagined and more, so much more. The softness of her skin and the salt taste of her, salt from the sea, sweetness of her own lemon scent, coconut from her hair: all of is it mingling, intoxicating. Drunk on her, he holds her there, her back arched and pressing against him. She can feel him hard against her, growing harder, and she grins into the dimly lit room for no one, for him, for herself, for them finally taking this step, for the combined elements of them, water and fire and earth and air and wood, finally coming together, making this love, finding this balance.

He reaches down with his other hand, groans as his fingers grasp a handful of her bottom, slide against the material of her lined skirt, smooth under the rough surface. His erection strains painfully against his trousers. He bites his lip to keep from groaning more loudly, but she is having none of that. She wants to hear him. She is reaching and grasping his hips with both hands and yanking him even closer, relishing the feel of his need through their layers of clothing. She is rewarded when he sucks in air through his teeth, letting it out with a profanity and her whispered name.

But now he is lifting her skirt and dropping to his knees. He's got her skirt around her waist and he's stroking her thighs, pressing hot hard kisses inside her knees. He leaves her stockings up, leaves her shoes on; forget the shoes, there's no time for that when she is so close to him and he can almost taste her. The scent of her arousal mingles with the coconut lemon sea salt air enveloping them and it is all he can do not to bury his face in her right now, but first he slips a finger under her suspenders, strokes the sensitive skin there on her thighs, and she is trembling with the pleasure of this unaccustomed touch. His mouth joins his fingers as he gently takes one of the suspenders between his teeth, draws it away just a tiny bit, lets it go, and the snap of it, that slight pain, draws a gasp, a strangled moan from her. He does the same with the other side, and she is burning, knees buckling, moaning with it. Her fingers are mussing his hair again, pulling it, tugging his head up, wanting to press his mouth to her sex.

He looks up into her face, sees her eyes darkened with her arousal, hears her heavy breathing. She wants him, oh yes. He knew it; he thought he was sure before when she spoke the words, but it has never been so manifest as it is right now as he slides his hands up her calves, her thighs. She grasps the hem of her skirt in one hand and he snakes his arms around behind her legs, grasping her hips between shoulders and forearms. He holds her immobile there as his fingers part her knickers, open her lips and he tastes her for the first time. His tongue is firm and broad, tracing circles and lines, then letting up on the pressure and finding a slow, stroking rhythm that brings her softly and maddeningly to the brink.

He is pulling away; his mouth is leaving her and he is looking up at her and she takes a shaking breath, thinking that this worship is coming to an end. But he surprises her, does not get to his feet yet; he wants to please her more. He has unwrapped his arms from around her hips and he's reaching up, his fingers working at the top of her corset. She drops the hem of her skirt and lightly swats his hands away, helps him. Her hands press the busk together to open it, she lets the corset fall to the floor and she is holding her skirt again, gathering its hem with one hand. She takes a deep breath, her breasts press against the outline of her shift and he is pulling her shift down, tearing it a little as he exposes her. She spares a quick thought for the damage and does not care. She could not care less at the moment, because he is running his fingertips roughly over her nipples and his mouth is so near her. And she is alive and he is alive and he has come to her to give her this adoration, to share this passion that they have denied for so long.

He is a tall man and she is petite, and he thanks the gods for these proportions as her knees buckle when he massages her breasts entirely, thoroughly, hard. And as her knees bend, she opens for him again, and his mouth finds her once more. He buries his face in her, strokes her softly, smiles into her as her breath catches again. Her free hand is wandering, aimless, bloodless, tingling, scrambling on his shoulders, fleeting over the rough stone walls. Her breath comes fast, heavy, high as she gasps, moans, cannot quite get there.

She gathers her strength to pull the shift down further, giving him fuller access to her breasts, and he gives her nipples one more delicate roll between his fingers before leaving them, reaching down again. She moans her disappointment until she feels his fingers dip into her folds. He caresses her there, but for only a moment, and his hands reach back up as his mouth starts the exquisite torment again. And now he is shocking; he is stroking her nipples with her own wetness. It is slick and hot and forbidden; it is everything she has never imagined and it sends her over the edge, bucking hard into his mouth as she comes in an ecstatic rush. His name is on her lips in whispered screams, and then she is sinking toward the floor as it releases her. But somehow he has caught her, and he holds her in his arms, her legs wrapped tightly around him, her arms strong around his shoulders. Her hands are clasped behind his neck and her face buried in the hollow between his neck and shoulder.

He is carrying her to the table. It is certainly sturdy enough to hold her, big enough for their two candles to rest there, framing him and her as they do this together. She shudders against him again as her orgasm subsides, and when he sets her on the table, she leans into him. Her skirt still rides high and she is perched just on the edge of the table, the fabric protecting her from the cold surface. They rest there for a moment as her breathing slows, their foreheads together, her arms still loosely around his neck, his hair unruly from her grasping, tugging. Her hair is in waves over her shoulders, and his hands are in it again, slowly, firmly, richly caressing the skin of her neck, her scalp.

He dips his head, kisses her gently, and she kisses him back, wrapping strong arms around him, gripping the back of his head, bringing him closer, kissing him hard. She can taste herself on him, and she feels her arousal begin to gather again. She spares a thought for this, one of the few blessings a woman sometimes has in this, a man's world. The ability to come again and again is one she discovered long ago but never shared with anyone. She'd read about it in a nasty magazine somewhere, discarded, forgotten, always remembered.

_(Then she'd tried it out, alone in her attic room. It was ages ago. She had come over and over, touching herself, each time faster, lighter, higher. These were stolen moments that she'd taken for herself, claiming women's troubles in order to get a little privacy. Not that it wasn't true; the times just before her monthly bleeding had always coincided with the most intense wanting, with more frequent impure thoughts. Most of the time, those thoughts had been about him. It had been difficult to meet his eye after those afternoons spent alone in her bed, knowing that her scent still lingered on her fingers even though she'd washed them. It had seemed to her that she must even look different at those times, when she felt most alive but also most illicit, most exposed. In this secret cavern of dim light and cool walls, in his element, she can let him see her wantonness; she can give this part of herself to him.)_

Her breathing is quickening again, her body arching against him. Her fingers are urgent as they grip his shoulders, slide down his chest, reach his hips, and pull him closer to her. He breaks their kiss, looks into her eyes, sees the passion there: her blue eyes are dark in this dim light. "Are you - can you - again?" he tries, stammers; this is difficult to say, but he is hopeful.

_(He had heard somewhere in the theatre, long ago, about women who came and came and came - the talk had been frank, racy, and he had overheard it from the dancing girls. Of course he had never dared imagine it of her, but suddenly he thinks it possible.)_

His heart leaps as she nods.

"Yes, my man, I can. And I want you, yes, again and again, yes, yes -" Her voice shakes and rises in pitch because he has taken her nipple into his mouth again. Her taste, her scent is still there; it is on him as well. The air is filled with her and he is intoxicated with it. His arousal is painful, urgent, but doing this for her, giving her pleasure after pleasure, is too exquisite and he will draw this out as long as he can. This too puts his perfect training to good use, he muses, this too is service, restraint, the most delicious postponement of his own release in order to bring hers again and again, to hear that voice, that burr, moaning and crying for it, coming, saying his name.

He is moving to the other nipple, rolling it with his tongue, tracing firm circles around it as he lightly pinches and rolls the first one. She feels her wetness pooling again, jerks her hips against him and releases a deep moan as he moves down again, this time untying the ribbons of her knickers. She tilts his chin with warm fingertips, kisses him softly, then rolls back a bit so that he can ease the knickers off. She is leaning back on her hands, and her knees are apart, her lovely thighs open for him. And he is there again, kneeling before her. He presses drugged kisses against her knees, her thighs, and his breath is hot as he hovers over her, breathes her in, strokes her once, hard, with his tongue, and she shudders. He does it again - laps at her, quickly, his face not buried in her this time but his tongue firm, insistent, bold. She moans with each stroke, pleads for more contact, for him inside her.

He is stroking her thighs, her bottom, with both hands, and he takes one hand, spreads her folds with two fingers, and slowly dips them into her, shallow, curling them just so until she moans deeply. She lies back on the table, lets all of this wash over her. His other hand comes to her breast and kneads it, teases the nipple. Her hands are drifting, flitting across surfaces; one finds purchase on her other breast and the other lands in her hair, grasping, releasing, pulling.

She no longer jerks, but undulates, rolling her hips as he strokes her. He keeps time with her; he is drunk on her, on the sensation of her against his tongue. She tightens and releases around his fingers as he continues to move inside her, deepening his touch to reach another secret place within, rhythmically pressing deep inside her, licking furiously as her hips rock harder and faster until she comes around him. She is crying out and he is proud and humbled all at once, and he gentles his touch and softens his mouth against her as she rides out this climax, shuddering. And then she is laughing with joy and release, and she leans up on her elbows to look at him, smile at him.

She is radiant and she is smiling for him and he lifts his head and grins at her, joyfully. He is beautiful, this lovely man on his knees before her with his messy hair and his proud face and shining eyes and he is happy, so happy. He is her man, and he is fully present in this moment and in his joy at pleasing his woman so thoroughly.

She sits up, and he rises to his feet. His knees are stiff, his back as well. But in this moment he couldn't care less because she is still smiling, still trembling. She speaks her love and her desire, wraps herself around him, skirt riding high, he still in his trousers, her legs and arms quivering but strong around his body. She laughs again as he kisses her neck, breathes hot behind her ear, whispers his want, his love, his plea.

He begs for release and she grasps his collar then, kisses his mouth hard. Slides the braces from his shoulders and swiftly undoes his trousers, softly freeing his sex. His breath catches as she wraps gentle fingers around him, runs her fingertips along the silken skin of his shaft, lingers at the base, leans toward him. She takes him into her mouth, just barely. Lingers with her tongue, presses lightly just there, just below the tip of him, and he moans, clutches at the back of her head, but does not push, he would never push her into this. He pulls gently at her hair, leans down, grasps the edge of the table for support.

Someday, she thinks, she will take all of him this way, as much as she can, and use lips and tongue to drive him mad, but today she wants him buried to the hilt in her, filling her completely. So she releases him, leaves one last kiss just there, and he lets out a shaking breath, curling his body into her, dropping his head to her shoulder. He pleads, whispers against her neck, begs for more, for them to be closer, for her to take him inside her. _Will this goddess allow her supplicant to pay this tribute? To perform this ritual and bring them both release?_

"Yes, my man, I want you, my love, yes, come to me now." She grants permission to a desperate man. He is all hardness, thick, solid, and she is all softness and strong resilience, and together they are whole. And he is pressing against her and she is holding him close, arching up to him, and he is inside her, slowly, slowly, fully. He is still, he is blissful, and she looks at him with love, with desire, _yes, come into me, my man, my only_. He pulls out, slowly, drives slow and hard into her again. Continues this rhythm as they climb together, and she arches her back, then curls forward into him, her arms draped around his shoulders, and they kiss, tangling lips and tongues, kissing necks, ears, everywhere.

He's let go of one of her hips and has put a thumb just there and it's so good, and she's getting there and this pleasure is building and she cannot, does not hold back. She is coming around him and her climax brings his. He is lost, he is home, he is deep inside her, spilling, and they wrap themselves around each other and hold on tightly as they both ride this out together.

"I love you, my man." She says into his chest. He is holding her, strong arms wrapped around her shoulders, her waist. His cheek is resting on top of her head, and she feels a tear fall into her hair. She pushes back, and he loosens his grip so that she can look up at him. She sees his shining eyes and two more tears running down his face, and his face is open and filled with love, so much love. His eyes are smiling as he speaks.

"I love you too, my darling. I always have." And her smile back at him is an honest, joyful thing, freely given, and she strokes his cheek with one hand and presses one more kiss against his smiling mouth. He kisses her back, softly, slowly, stroking her hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear.

By silent agreement they separate, her gasping a little as he pulls slowly, gently, out of her. He helps her to the floor and they both laugh softly as they begin to collect their clothing. She puts her knickers back on; he does up his trousers and braces. She pulls up her chemise, tuts softly at the torn material, and he looks at her apologetically.

"I'm sorry about that, love, I'll repair it for you or replace it, I promise -" he begins, and she rolls her eyes, laughs gently. "

You sweet, daft man. If you think I'm truly vexed about a little thing like that…" She does not finish, but just shakes her head, smiles, takes his face in both hands and kisses him.

He relaxes into the kiss, feeling forgiven, and then he picks up her corset. He asks her permission with his eyes, and she raises her arms to allow him to wrap it loosely around her body. His hands cover hers, lightly, as she closes it over her bosom. When she's pressed the busk closed and all the hooks are in place, he draws her to him again, kisses her forehead, her hands, her lips. He releases her hands, picks up her blouse, and helps her into it. He finds his waistcoat and puts it on, watches her fingers as they deftly close the buttons of her blouse.

He takes the hairpins from his pocket and combines them in his hand with the small pile from the wine rack. Hands them to her one by one as she does up her hair. Her heart clenches at this tenderness from her man of stone and wood and she gives him another smile. When she is finished, she reaches up to stroke his cheek and caress her thumb across his bottom lip. He closes his eyes, presses a kiss to her thumb and catches her hand between his. They embrace one more time, tightly, and release. Having collected all of their things, they hold hands again as they make their way out of the cellar, up the stairs and into the kitchen of Grantham House.

"I'll need to stop on the way upstairs, have a bit of a wash…" He whispers, and she agrees, she will need a moment as well. They will meet again, at the top of the stairs, kiss goodnight, find their way back to the rooms they each share with others in Grantham House. Tonight they must sleep apart, yes, but not for many nights after. The Season is nearly over, thank goodness; they will return to Downton soon, where the banns can be read, their rooms arranged somehow, their life together can begin.

They will find a way.

* * *

TBC... Probably.

* * *

A/N

I borrowed the hair-holding-almost-kissing-not-kissing from sensitivebore's "Blameless" and i strongly recommend that story. it's on archiveofourown dot org.

definition came from merriam-webster again.

thank you to all of you who review and who write fanfic. there are so many little pieces of this that are from fics i've read and i'm afraid i haven't remembered all of them, so my apologies to those who i've borrowed from without remembering to acknowledge. i'm sure there are lots. mea culpa.


	4. Chapter 4: foible

**A/N Thanks again to all who have reviewed. And a huge thank-you to kouw, without whose mad beta skills this would be a confusing mess.**

**Please take the time to leave a review - many many thanks!**

Thanks, Merriam-Webster...

And many thanks to all the beautiful writers of fanfic out there whose work has helped to inspire this.

**It's been a big day for these two.**

* * *

**Chapter 4. foible**

**temper:** (_transitive verb_) to cause (something, such as steel or glass) to become hard or strong by heating it and cooling it

* * *

They meet at the top of the stairs to say good night. She looks down at his stockinged feet, at the shoes in his hand, and smiles; she has done the same thing in order to move silently through the halls of this house. She looks up at him and savors everything about him in this moment. He is adorable, mussed and sweet in the warm light of their candles, and he smells of soap and pomade and sex and _home_. She bends down to place her shoes soundlessly on the floor, then reaches up and does the same with his.

He watches her and holds his candle well away from them. She straightens, takes his free hand in hers, squeezes it. Reaches up to his collar, pulls him gently down to her, kisses him softly. His lips, his tongue have worked delicious wicked magic tonight, and she shivers with the memory of it. He wraps his arm around her and holds her close.

He notices how she is smaller without her shoes; their height difference is slightly greater now than it usually is. He feels a surge of love, a wish to protect her (_though he suspects she doesn't require his protection; she is strong and difficult and she handles change better than he does_).

"Are you cold, love?" She can hear the beauty of his voice even in a whisper, and she loves it, lets it wind itself around her, lets her body melt a bit more against his.

"No, not cold. Just - remembering," she whispers, and he laughs softly, leans his cheek against the top of her head. She thinks for a moment. Decides to throw caution to the wind; after all that they have done together she is free to speak, to be this forward, and so she shifts to whisper in his ear, "It was lovely, Mr Carson. I cannae believe we've done that" - _gods how he adores that voice that brogue he drinks it in he cannot get enough_ - "but it was lovely and I hope we can do it again very soon."

He gasps a little, slightly shocked at her frankness. Grateful for it. He pauses to tilt her chin up gently, kiss her pretty lips. Hesitates, decides to speak his truth as well. "I hope so too. My god, Mrs Hughes, I will miss you tonight."

"I will miss you too, my man. So much. I suppose we must get to sleep, though. We've a full day ahead of us." It is true; they will begin packing tomorrow for their return to Yorkshire. _Thank heaven_, she thinks. It will be good to be back at Downton. Where there is plenty of space and they always know exactly which rooms are unoccupied. Where there are constant interruptions, but there is almost always the promise of tea or wine together at the end of the night.

"We'll be back home soon," he whispers.

"Yes, and I'm quite glad of it." She stands on tiptoe, holds her candle off to the side, and kisses him deeply. He holds her close. She smiles against his lips, lets one hand slide down onto his chest, and pushes back lightly to look him in the eyes. "We've got to decide what to do."

He nods and they agree to meet in the early morning in her sitting room to talk. They'll be wanting sleep; there's no doubt about that, but they both feel the urgency of sorting their situation, informing their employers of their intent, arranging their future.

What they have together is both new and old, and they are protective of this unnamed thing, this long-lived, slowly-built love. They want to shape it together, properly, before they declare it to others. It has been such a long time coming that they are not certain how it is supposed to look, where they are supposed to have started. They do know what it _is_. After all these years of silence on the subject, they know in their hearts _exactly_ what this is; they've just never learned to put words to it.

Fortunately for them, there are public words for this kind of thing. _Banns. Marriage. Retirement_. These words will do what is necessary: build a shelter around their love, give it room to breathe and grow. In this way, language will protect them. There is no need to announce the words that they whisper to one another, words of adoration, worship, desire. Private words that acknowledge that they haven't quite followed the rules. They haven't waited for the sanction of God and man to bless their union. They have blessed it themselves.

Now they both bend at the same time to retrieve their shoes. They bump hands, smile. He picks hers up, hands them to her, takes his. They tuck their shoes under their elbows, hold the candles off to the side as their free hands find one another. She brings their hands to her lips, presses a kiss to his fingers.

She looks lovely in this light, and suddenly he needs to tell her this, more than anything. He takes his hand from hers, touches her cheek tenderly with the backs of his fingers.

"You are so beautiful," he whispers. He is in awe. She closes her eyes briefly, inclines her face into his touch, brushes her lips against him. Looks up at him again with that warmth in her eyes, and he almost comes undone. Almost falls to his knees and begs her to let him stay with her tonight, throw Baxter and Molesley in a room if they must, any room, (_he has seen how they look at one another, those two, and frankly, he approves of it; maybe it will calm Molesley down a bit_), just get them out of the way and take the rest of the night for themselves. Sleep in each other's arms, wake up together. He wants this, very badly, but he knows that it cannot be. "I wish we could stay together tonight."

"Oh my man, my beautiful, lovely man. You know I want that too, and soon we will have it." She presses a kiss into his palm and closes his hand over it. "Now go, Mr Carson, and get some rest."

One more kiss, one more squeeze of the hands and they part ways.

She misses him, can smell him on her as she enters the bedroom and closes the door softly behind her. In the dim light of her candle she can see Miss Baxter's sleeping form. She is grateful not to be wearing her chatelaine; for once its constant jingling is not there to announce her every move to the whole house.

She undoes her hair first, laying the pins into their small box on her dresser. She remembers the feeling of him taking out every pin, feels the ghost of his fingers in her hair as she braids it. As she undresses, every move feels like an echo of what he did, what they did together. She undoes her suspenders and rolls down her stockings. _That, he didn't do_, she thinks. _Next time._ Her breath hitches as she remembers the promises they've made. This new certainty that there will be a next time - that they will share their life, their bed, every cup of tea and every glass of wine - hits her with full force and now her tears start. She presses a hand to her breastbone, tries to contain the rush of feeling that threatens to overcome her. Sorrow for lost time, grief for what they could have had if they'd found the courage years ago. Joy for what they have finally found, relief at the crumbling of the walls.

Exhaustion, more than anything else. They've given themselves to one another in the most intimate way, promised themselves to one another, and she is wrung out emotionally and physically. She hugs herself, still pressing against her breastbone, and gives in to the emotions. Her hand is over her mouth and the tears pour down her face, down her neck, and she sits down slowly on her bed, dressed only in her shift. She cradles her head in her hands and her whole body shakes with silent sobs.

She is still weeping as she gets up, turns down the covers, blows out the candle, gets into bed. She turns to the wall, curls her body tightly into itself. She is not cold. She is not sad, nor angry, nor hurt; she is spent, and she lets the tears come as they will. And the most ordinary thing in the world, sleeping alone in a narrow bed in the room she shares with Miss Baxter, is rendered strange and desolate in contrast with the heat and light that she and he have made together. But she needs these tears, this release, as much as she had needed the release that he gave her (_again and again with sliding tongue lips hands everywhere holding teasing stroking and then silken skin over thick hardness and hot heavy slow deep thrusts_) - the memory of it makes her shiver and she uncurls, lies on her back, brings one hand to her breast, while the other slides down to raise her shift and land between her legs. She squeezes her thighs together around her hand and starts to stroke her sex.

_No_. She cannot do this here, cannot put Miss Baxter in this position if she were to awaken. But she cannot sleep like this, so she gets up, puts on her dressing gown, takes the candle and matches and leaves the room, striking the match once she has closed the door behind her. She glances down the hall to his door; there is no light coming from under it. _Thank god_. She needs to do this alone. She descends the stairs, slips into a bathroom and locks the door. There in flickering candlelight, she touches herself, gives herself one more shuddering climax, whispers his name through tears of joy and exhaustion. Afterward she lets herself back into her shared room, too tired to think, too tired to feel or weep, and sleeps deeply for a few precious hours.

* * *

He opens the door to the room he shares with Molesley. Molesley turns, mumbles something in his sleep, then goes back to his light snore. Mr Carson rolls his eyes. _Molesley_. He can't wait to return to Downton. Not only because he can be with her, but also to be rid of this bumbling fool as a roommate. It's not that Molesley is an idiot, or even a bad worker. Something about him just gets under Mr Carson's skin. Mostly, he just wishes that the man would disappear to give them some privacy, a room just for her and him. Where they could wake up warm and tangled together, make slow love in the morning. _Only four more days_.

He lies in bed, remembering the warmth in her eyes as they stood at the top of the stairs, and he is struck by something. He has always found her beautiful, but he had never seen her look at him quite that way, with soft eyes and an unguarded face. Open. Unafraid.

It is only now that he realizes how guarded her face normally is, has always been. Even when she smiles it's a public smile, a professional one. The few times he's seen her let the veil drop have been when she was hurt (_when he'd hurt her, if he's honest_). Those many years ago when the family were reeling from the sinking of the Titanic and the loss of both heirs. When he'd said that the ones upstairs were the only family he'd got, and she had looked at him with sudden pain in in those beautiful eyes. And all he had said was "I beg your pardon," when he should have got down on one knee and asked her right then and there. He'd never even answered the question she spoke aloud, let alone the one in her eyes. He hopes he's answered that unspoken question adequately now, and he will be a happy man if he can answer it again every day for the rest of their lives.

Other memories come back to him. Those tense conversations about Ethel who had become a - he can't even think the word. Who had fallen into a bad way. She had done so much to help the girl and he had insulted her, called her a woman of no standards. He remembers the way she had looked at him, dismissing his posturing as she marched out of his pantry, her face a caricature of his own pompous expression.

When she had cancer (_She didn't have cancer; they __thought__ she had cancer. There's an enormous difference, he tells himself. Can't seem to get his head around it sometimes. He understands it now; after tonight he understands that he and she are very much alive, burning with life_), he had been so afraid to lose her that when she got well - that is, when it turned out that she had been well all along - he had tried to push her away again, but hadn't quite found it in himself to do so.

He had seen the depth of his feeling for her and had tried his best to make things easier for her while respecting her privacy. He'd surprised himself by singing that silly love song while polishing the silver, but he'd actually felt relief when she didn't catch him at it, didn't come into his pantry. Didn't come to him, nudge him along just a bit further, dare him with sparkling eyes to put down the silver, kiss her, embrace her, declare himself. _Relief_. He lies on his back, one arm slung over his forehead, scowling at himself.

His worst offense, the one that haunts him more than all the rest, came after all of that, on the day he'd gone into the nursery to pick up a crying Miss Sybbie. He'd held her and bounced her, comforting the only child of their sweet lost Lady Sybil. They could do nothing for her now but cherish her bairn, Mrs Hughes had said. _And it's lovely to watch you doing just that._ He had felt his walls crumbling; he had wanted to draw her into his embrace, hold her along with the child, pretend for a moment that the little one was theirs.

He'd rejected the thought, telling himself it was improper for him to think of a young lady of the house that way (_as a daughter or granddaughter, as his own, exactly the way he thinks of Lady Mary as his to protect_). And so he'd told her there was no need to get sentimental. He knows - he knew even then - that it was a ruse. A giant lie that he told her in order to push her away.

And why did he ever push her away?

To protect his career, hers, their standing with the family. All he's worked for. All she's worked for. She's done well for herself and so has he. Both of them have come from less; she was a farm girl, he the son of a groom and a charwoman.

To protect his own heart. He had feared the things that their love might have brought. Intimacy, vulnerability, inevitable loss. Grief. The worry and pain that come with having children. Yes, he has loved her since they were both young, young enough to have started a family together. But by the time Miss Sybbie came along, pushing Mrs Hughes away had already become habit, his first line of defense.

He runs a hand over his face, stares up into the dark, shakes his head at himself in disgust. He has been a fool not to have seen what was there before him._ But oh yes, he has seen it. Many times. He saw it when she told him she'd miss him if he went to Haxby - he saw it in her eyes_.

He sends up a prayer of thanks for the mysterious turn of events that prevented Lady Mary from marrying that horrible man. _Sir Richard Carlisle_. His jaw clenches at the thought of the man and the way he had treated Lady Mary. He had never understood quite why she was going to marry him, but he's not worried about it anymore. That man is long gone, and she is safe.

His eyes snap open. _Lady Mary is safe_.

"Lady Mary is safe." He whispers it into the dark. He is free.

* * *

TBC


	5. Chapter 5: fortitude

**A/N** Thanks once again to the lovely kouw for her generosity and mad beta skills. Thanks to all of you who have left reviews; you brighten my day with your lovely words! And as always, thanks to the beautiful writers of fanfiction whose work inspires this. (And to Lord Fellowes for creating these characters; I wish they were mine / ours but we'll just have to borrow them for a while.) The definition is from Merriam-Webster again.

* * *

**Chapter 5. Fortitude**

**temper**: (_noun_) high quality of mind or spirit : courage

* * *

She has slept soundly, but she wakes up early with a terrible headache. After yesterday's events she is worn out. She looks at herself in the mirror; her eyes are puffy from crying last night, but she had expected that. She does her morning routine quickly and puts on her daytime dress. She is feeling confined in her corset today, in her black dress, in this house (especially in this house in London, where they are all packed so closely together). She longs for the freedom of the outdoors, the sight of the sky.

* * *

He wakes up to the sound of his alarm at five-thirty. He has not slept well, and for one confused moment he has no idea why he's being awakened at this hour, but the memories come rushing back and he throws back the covers, sits up before he's even fully awake. His body is shouting at him to go back to sleep, but he wants to see her again, touch her again. Hear her voice, make plans for their future.

He tries to ignore the dark circles under his eyes as he goes through his morning ritual. In his shaving kit he keeps a perfect white handkerchief folded into a tight square; he has checked on it every day for years. Today he takes it out, makes sure its contents are safe, and secrets it away into the inside pocket of his morning coat.

He descends the stairs and heads to Mrs Bute's sitting room. She is there with a tray with tea and toast from the kitchen. They chose this room simply because it is more private than his pantry, but it seems fitting that they should have this conversation there; it is familiar but not exactly home. It is new territory that they will navigate together.

The door is ajar and and he knocks on it, opens it when he hears her soft voice. It is strange to see her in her somber, unyielding work clothing again after he has felt the lushness of her blouse and skirt (and her body, her skin, her full breasts, the silk of her hair) yesterday. It is also somewhat comforting. It is a sign that they are not changed people; they are more themselves than ever before because they've let these truths come to light. And they were there, these truths, boiling up just below the surface; it was a godsend to have their day at the beach and their time in the wine cellar.

He thinks that perhaps those moments saved them, brought them away from despair and loneliness. The balance could have tipped in the other direction, driving them apart. But it did not, and he thanks heaven for this as she sets down the glass and looks up at him with a loving smile and warmth in her eyes, and he is closing the door and they are coming together with urgent steps. They kiss tenderly, with her hands on his face and his at her hips, and she arches forward, melting against him.

He has never put much stock in that expression about being weak in the knees, but now he feels it. He wants to sink to the floor with this woman and not rise again they are both satiated, spent, sleepy from sex and not from fatigue. Wants to share a bed with her, wake up late together with the sun streaming in through the windows. They embrace; she presses her face against his chest and inhales him deeply. He smells of soap and clean cotton, and she smiles, closes her eyes, savoring this beautiful man. _Her man_.

"I missed you, Mr Carson. Did you sleep well?"

"Not terribly well, I'm afraid. Did you?" He wants to tell her about his thoughts from the night before, lay his apology at her feet and ask for forgiveness, but it will have to wait; they've decided to use this time to reach a decision if they can, before the house wakes up and the bells start ringing.

"Surprisingly, yes, though for only half as long as I'd have liked."

"Hmmm." He smiles ruefully into her hair; the story of their lives in service is that of too little sleep. "I missed you too, Mrs Hughes."

They separate so that she can drink the medicine; then they sit with chairs pushed close together and have their tea and toast in comfortable silence.

She sighs. "Well. We certainly have a lot to discuss."

"Y- yes. I wonder if I might first - revisit something from yesterday." She looks alarmed, and he gestures, rushes on. "Please, don't worry; I'm not taking anything back. I wouldn't, not for the world. Only - I asked you something yesterday and you gave me the most wonderful answer, but there was something missing. I have it here with me today, so I would like to ask you again, properly this time."

She frowns slightly, eyes wide in disbelief, but nods, waiting. There is only one thing that could have been missing from yesterday's proposal, and it's impossible that he could already have it. But now he is holding her hand in one of his and he's reaching with the other into the pocket of his morning coat. He brings out the tightly-folded square of white cotton, smiles at her.

"I have waited far too long to ask you to marry me. I've pushed you away so many times. I've got no excuse, and I've got no explanation either, except that the rules of propriety do a remarkably good job at hiding cowardice."

She shakes her head, smiling at this insufferable, wonderful man. _He does have a point there_, she thinks, and she has tears in her eyes; his are welling up also, and he is getting out of his chair and dropping down to one knee as he unfolds the cloth.

She gasps at the beauty of gold against bright white cotton as he continues, "Elsie Hughes, I would be the happiest man in the world if you would agree to be my wife and spend our lives together. Will you - wear my ring? Will you marry me?"

_He would need to ask the question more than once,_ she thinks. _The proper butler asking properly. This lovely man offering himself to her. _She is nodding vigorously, biting her lip with tears in her eyes. She blinks and a tear falls as he slips the simple, shining band onto the ring finger of her right hand. She stands, pulls him up to her as she did yesterday and they are kissing with full hearts there in the sitting room, warmed by the sun and their own slow burn.

They sit down then to their toast and tea, holding hands across the table. She keeps the ring on for the moment; later she will put it on a chain around her neck in order to keep their engagement private until they have spoken with his Lordship and her Ladyship.

"I suppose we have a few decisions to make," he begins.

"I agree, Mr Carson. If we are to stay at Downton after we marry," she pauses and smiles at him, eyes sparkling, "then we will have to speak to her Ladyship about our rooms. I've imagined us in a cottage, like Anna and Mr Bates, but we're needed at the big house much more than they are. Although I must say, I'm feeling more and more inclined toward retirement. Is that something you're willing to consider?" She feels doubtful.

"It may come as a surprise, but I've come round, Mrs Hughes. I'd have found it unthinkable a few years ago, but to be honest, I think I'm ready."

"But what of Lady Mary? I know how fond you are of her, and I don't want to be the reason you leave against your will."

"Lady Mary is going to be alright. I believe Lady Mary no longer needs me to help her. As I'm sure you know, I felt an obligation to protect her when she had plans to marry Sir Richard Carlisle."

She laughs a little at his tone. "The way you say his name, it sounds like a curse."

"And he deserves it. Do you remember when he actually tried to bribe Anna to spy on her?"

"I remember it well. I also remember how relieved I was when you decided not to go." Her eyes soften again when she looks up at him and squeezes his hand. He gives her a little smile and touches her cheek with the backs of his fingers, tucks an invisible strand behind her ear.

"I was too, my love. I would have missed you terribly. Do you remember how I tried to tell you? I said I would regret it every minute of every day if I left Downton." He had been both hopeful and afraid that she would understand his meaning.

She smiles, a sad smile. "I remember." They sit for a moment with the quiet sense of relief, looking at their hands on the table.

She continues, "But you say you're ready to leave Downton now. Are you? Truly?"

He nods. "My love, I have never been more certain of anything in my life. I was worried about Lady Mary, it's true. I was especially worried about her when Mr Matthew - well. You know how I tried to get her to rejoin the land of the living." She nods. "But she's returned. She's going to parties, and she's taken an interest in Master George. Her stake in Downton is secure. She's safe, Mrs Hughes, and now that I know she doesn't need my protection anymore, there's nothing to keep me from leaving. With you."

She looks at him, a smile growing on her face. He is ready, and she did not have to push him.

They agree to meet with their employers after breakfast upstairs. Just before they part ways, she takes the ring from her finger and strings it onto a chain around her neck, tucking it under her dress. She strokes his face, pushes his curl back into place. He kisses her fingertips. They share one more quick kiss before taking a deep breath and opening the door to the bustling world outside the sitting room.

* * *

The breakfasts are uneventful and the meeting with their employers is relatively painless. They recommend Anna as her replacement and Mr Bates as House Steward with Mr Barrow as Butler. His Lordship is shocked at first to hear of their understanding, but he only tuts a little bit, and settles down after that. Her Ladyship just smiles, happy for them and amused at her husband's reaction. They are sorry to see them go. The question of living quarters is unclear but her Ladyship has mentioned something about a house in the village. They do not quite dare hope; a house in the village would be very nice indeed, especially compared to the cottages that have not yet been modernized. Her Ladyship insists on sending a telegram to Downton today so that Mr Travis can read the banns in two days.

The rest of the day is a blur. The packing has begun, and there is much work to do. At the large upstairs supper the Dowager Countess catches Mr Carson's eye and subtly raises a glass with a tiny smile. He is slightly embarrassed and quite moved at the intimacy of this gesture, but manages a small smile and a dignified, grateful nod.

* * *

At the servants' supper she is wearing the ring. They walk in together and when everyone stands, she finds his hand, gives it a quick squeeze. Mrs Patmore and Daisy enter the Servants' Hall with platters of food and they linger after setting down their burdens; something is a bit off. Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson have not yet taken their seats, and he has not given the staff the signal to sit.

He clears his throat and begins. "Everyone, I have an announcement to make." Anna gasps in realization. Mr Carson startles, but Mrs Hughes is at his side, steadying him. "I wish to inform you that I shall be retiring in three weeks' time." He looks at Mrs Hughes, giving her the floor.

"Yes, thank you, Mr Carson." She turns to the staff and continues, "I shall be retiring in three weeks' time as well." The staff are restless, wanting to chat with one another, but he and she are still standing at the head of the table, commanding their attention.

She looks up at him; he is actually looking nervous. They had agreed to tell the staff of their understanding, but he is obviously struggling as he tries to find the right words. She is ready, and she turns with a smile to the staff, folding her hands at her waist so that the ring is visible.

"Mr Carson and I are to be married." There is joy in the Servants' Hall, and glasses are raised to their happiness. The men come to shake Mr Carson's hand, and the women come to embrace Mrs Hughes.

Mrs Patmore, tears in her eyes, hugs Mrs Hughes tightly and says in her ear, "It's about time you two got it together. I'm that happy for you, really I am." Mrs Hughes breaks away, smiles at Mrs Patmore with tears shining in her own eyes, and hugs her again.

* * *

After the last of the well-wishers have gone up, they sink into the chairs in Mrs Bute's sitting room. He pours them each a small glass of sherry and they raise their glasses to each other. They sip, holding hands lightly on the table. It is easy, comfortable. He sets his glass down and leans his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose and then running a hand over his face. She looks at him with concern, and he shakes his head to reassure her.

"It's nothing to worry about, my love - nothing but the lack of sleep. Although there is something I'd like to talk with you about."

"Oh my, after the last two days I don't think I can handle any more revelations."

"Don't worry; it's nothing that will be a surprise to you, I should think. I mentioned this morning that I hadn't slept well, and the reason is this: My mind was racing; I couldn't stop thinking about you. About - us."

When she sees his worried expression, she frowns slightly. "Is everything alright, Mr Carson?" Her mind flits back to the emotional wreck she'd been the night before.

"I was thinking about all of the ways I've wronged you."

She raises her eyebrows. "Wronged me? Mr Carson, I don't -"

He shakes his head. "I've pushed you away so many times, insulted you, and thrown your words back in your face." His voice breaks. "It's not easy for me to talk about this. But I need to make it right." He is staring at their hands, and she gives his hands a squeeze before standing up to hold him close. He reaches up to her and embraces her around the waist as she wraps her arms around his shoulders, one hand holding his head gently against her body. She hums her response as she runs her fingers through his hair.

"Oh, my man. My lovely, impossible, infuriating man."

He is frightened; he lifts his head, expecting to see anger despite her gentle tone. He ventures a look up into her eyes and sees that she is looking at him kindly.

"Mr Carson, it's true you can be a bit difficult at times. It means a great deal to me to hear you say it. Now. We can talk some more about all of this later, but for the moment, just rest assured that you'll not lose me for having said some unpleasant things in the past."

"That is a relief, my love." He is still a bit worried about it because he's new at this, but he will try to trust her, let her lead the way. It is an act of courage for him to speak about these affairs of the heart (even though yesterday he gave her his heart, his heart that she'd had in her hands all these years). It is difficult and he says the wrong things and he doesn't like to fumble, doesn't like to struggle with words so he often would rather keep silent, disengage, or say the first proper thing that comes to his head, just to stop the situation getting more precarious. But he is beginning to realize, to _believe_ even, that they are in no danger. That his love and desire for her will not frighten her away (as he had feared these many years).

"We ought to be going up, I suppose," he says in a low voice.

"Yes. It's hard to leave you for the night." She wants to sleep curled into this man, sharing blankets and warmth with his big beautiful body. Be wrapped together, feel his skin on hers. They've had so little contact, really - one burning night of pleasure and a day of kisses and chaste caresses - and they are still unfamiliar to one another in many ways. But they now know what it is for his mouth to be on her skin, for her to envelop him in her heat, and their blood pumps through them in double time as they remember.

He loosens his hold on her, brings his hands to her hips, and she is holding his head in her hands as he looks up to her. She grins, dips down and brings her mouth to his ear, whispers her want. She trails light kisses along his neck, his jawline, and listens to his sharp intake of breath as her hand drifts down to loosen his white tie, undo the first buttons of his shirt, and slip inside to caress his chest. He gasps again as her fingers leave him, but she is taking his hand and drawing him to stand with her. He's bending down, trying to kiss her, and she stops him with one hand on his chest and one holding his chin, pressing him until she can bring her lips close to his. When they are just touching, she whispers into his mouth.

"Your pantry. The armchair."

* * *

TBC


	6. Chapter 6: friction

**A/N** Many thanks, as always, to the wonderful kouw for beta'ing this! And thanks to everyone who has reviewed, including the guest reviewers; I would respond to you if I could! Please know that I appreciate your taking the time to write to me!

The definition is from Merriam-Webster again, these characters are not mine, blah blah blah.

* * *

**Chapter 6. friction**

**temper** (_transitive verb_) to make stronger and more resilient through hardship **:** toughen troops _tempered_ in battle

* * *

"Your pantry. The armchair."

"God, yes," he breathes, and he tries to kiss her but she is still holding him back, her lips barely touching his. She pushes him away, just slightly, looking at him with a wicked sparkle in her eyes, and then she's moving to the door and opening it. There is no one about, but just to be safe, she checks the hallway. Even though the whole house is now aware of their intentions, it wouldn't do to be seen sneaking about the hallways together. Perhaps especially because everyone knows, they want to keep this private. They don't want to hear whispering, don't want to see knowing glances and cheeky grins.

They step across the hallway to his pantry. One of the electric lights is on and it casts a gentle glow into the room. He steps in behind her and closes the door, leaning back against it and opening his arms to her. She comes to him, burning, pushing him up against the door, standing close between his thighs and pulling his head down to capture his mouth with hers. They are kissing urgently; he is pushing back against her to try to regain control and she is holding his wrists, smiling against his lips as she keeps him immobile. He grins back, breaks free with one hand and manages to turn them around by wrapping his arm around her waist and actually lifting her up to pin her against the door. She is laughing, trembling with the joy of his lips on her throat, with the strength of this man and the power of him and her together. Her arms are around his shoulders and his knee is between her legs and she rocks slightly forward against it, letting her breath hitch and looking him in the eye, eliciting a deep moan from him in return. He is astonished to see her like this; every little thing she shows him, every movement, is a gift he gratefully accepts.

She has had enough of her restrictive dress and she quirks a little smile as she begins unbuttoning it. He is melting, falling into those eyes of hers, and he cannot stop touching her so he rests his hands at her hips. She makes quick work of her dress and steps out of it. He gently takes the dress from her hands and crosses the room to drape it over the back of his desk chair. She watches him, smiling at the tenderness and care this man shows her.

Her eyes flick downward as he walks back to her; she can see his arousal and he sees her look there. He is discomfited for an instant but she is standing in her corset and shift, welcoming, holding out both hands to him with a warm, loving look. _Accepting._ It occurs to him that she _accepts_ him, loves him for who he is, even when he is weak, when he is irritating, even when he is … _like this_. _Perhaps especially so, _he thinks wildly. She wants him, he realizes. _Desires_ him. He shocks himself with this idea, as he has not allowed himself to think of her in quite that way before. He has thought of pleasing her, oh yes, he has thought vaguely of what they might do together but not until last night had he ever thought in much detail about it. Even as they were together and he was drowning in her, touching all of that lusciousness, he almost could not believe that it was real, that he was not going to wake up from it alone and wanting in his bed.

Even in his fantasies she has never reached for him as she is now, the look in her eyes growing more heated as she waits for him to come to her. He takes her hands and she pulls him toward her, rapidly undoing the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt and pushing them off of his shoulders along with his tailcoat. He cradles her face in his hands and kisses her as she is undoing his trousers, and he jerks with his hips, takes a gasping breath as she reaches down to cup him, softly, so softly. Then she is toeing off her shoes, undoing her corset, slipping off her shift, and standing before him in nothing but stockings and knickers.

He looks at her, boldly takes her in as she stands there, slightly shy but filled with love and desire that make her bold as well. Their clothing ends up on his desk chair except for her shift which she holds in her hand, and he is taking off shoes and socks and shorts and standing barefoot, naked with this lovely woman. He holds her in his arms for a moment, plants a kiss in her hair, whispers his love into her ear and she returns his words to him. He feels protective of her again as he did yesterday; she is so much smaller than him but such a spitfire, so strong. He thinks she might laugh at him if he told her he thinks of her that way, but maybe he will tell her anyway, someday when they lie spent and blissful together in their bed.

"Armchair," she whispers in his ear, pulling him toward it. He thinks fleetingly of her soft skin on the leather surface and the idea of it both excites and troubles him; he does not want her to be uncomfortable. But she has thought of everything, it seems, as she lays her shift down onto the chair before sitting.

He kneels, strokes her legs, undoes one of her suspenders with gentle fingers. She has to help him a little; he who is so familiar with the perfection of men's fine clothing is venturing into unknown territory with the hooks and buttons of the feminine equivalents - someday she will teach him about her corset so he can unwrap her body himself and she can watch him do it, slowly, quickly, as many times as they like when they are in their own home together. She will have him by the light of day, in the middle of the night, early in the morning when they will wake to each other and then fall back asleep, tangled together after they have driven one another mad with kisses and caresses.

He's rolling down her stocking, slowly, savoring her silken skin, and his mouth follows his hands. She is shaking with the sensation of it as he strokes her thigh, her knee, her calf. She has never felt this, never had this kind of contact before (only from her own hands and that was different, so very different from having him touch her this way). She is hot, burning from the inside with passion for this man. He has finished with her stockings and lays them aside, and he's reaching for the ribbons of her knickers and she's arching up, letting him untie them and pull them away. She is naked and she sinks down, drapes one leg over the armrest, and brings his hands to the meeting of her thighs.

"Touch me, Mr Carson."

He is resting his hands on her and staring at her _there_. He has never seen a woman's sex like this before, open and inviting in the soft light, and he is fascinated and very, very aroused. He cups her bottom, brings her closer to him while leaving her leg up on the armrest. He lingers, his tongue just touching her, just there. She shudders as he increases the pressure, lets up again.

He's not even moving against her, just pressing. Harder. Lighter. She's breathing hard as she begs for more and he brings his hands out from under her and places them just so, lightly massaging her with gentle thumbs, and she rocks slowly, deeply, moaning low and throwing her head back against the chair. She runs a shaking hand through his hair, doesn't press him but just touches his skin and it's enough to make him deepen the contact, slide against her, and she melts, moans, clutches the armrest with one hand and his shoulder with the other, and when he dips two fingers inside, curling them just so, she comes undone around him, shaking, stroking his shoulder and his arm, clutching the armrest and crying out his name.

Then she is pushing his hands away and sliding off the chair to land on her feet and she pulls him with her toward his desk. She sits up on it; he stands between her legs and she wraps them around him, pulling him to her, welcoming him in as he enters her. He moves slowly at first, but she pulls him with her legs, with her hands on his hips, taking him fully inside and they both gasp with the sudden closeness, the joy of being together like this (after all this time, after ages and ages of waiting and then the day they've had - with the understanding out in the open but with them unable to touch one another — this day too has lasted an eternity).

Again and again he pulls out just a tiny bit, so very slowly, and comes back with a powerful thrust, drawing little cries from her each time he reaches that place deep inside. She is fast approaching another climax and she tells him so. He is so proud and he grins at her, moves one hand from her hips to the small of her back and the other to the nape of her neck. She arches her back as she reaches up to meet his kiss and they both moan in time as they continue their rhythm of quick advance and slow retreat.

He is feeling bold and there is something he would love to see; he is not sure if she will do it but he has an idea she might. (_She had known last night, known she could come more than once; could it be she's tried this on her own, touching herself breathlessly in the dark just as he has done, in the nights when he was feverish with the thought of her?)_ He pauses in their rhythm, pulls out a bit more than before and asks her.

"Do you want to touch yourself?" She looks at him with wide eyes. It is not the question itself that is shocking, not the implication, but that it is coming from his mouth; she never expected to hear something like this from him. But the idea of it is just too good to refuse and so she responds before he can take it back.

"Do you want to see me touch myself, Mr Carson?"

She takes his breath away and it is all he can do to nod, look pleadingly into her eyes. He wants to see it, wants to very badly, and he is nervous, almost afraid of the strength of her effect on him, but it is a fear that he enjoys more than he could ever have imagined. She is leaning back on one hand and running her fingers over him and her where they are joined, and then she begins to stroke herself slowly. She closes her eyes and gives a long moan and he gazes at her with a new freedom.

He has never seen a woman do this, not ever, and he could come right now just from the sight of it but he wants this to be good for her, so he forces himself to look away from what her fingers are doing, to let his eyes roam over the rest of her body. He sees a scar on her breast — something he did not notice in last night's flickering candlelight. He frowns for an instant, worried. Reminds himself to ask her about it, to kiss it softly if she will allow it. Later, when they have the time to talk. After their passion has consumed them and they are sleepy and tender together.

But now she's looking up at him with a heady, heavy-lidded mixture of lust and love and he's drowning; he'll surely die in those eyes, but if he does he'll die a happy man. She's quickening her pace and he speeds up as well but holds himself in check until she's coming around him and she cries out his name and he is holding her tightly and spilling inside her, moaning her name along with words of love. She still cups her sex gently, shuddering a little as she sits up, drapes one arm loosely around his shoulders and rests her head against his chest as he strokes her hair that has come loose from its pins and draws light circles on her back with his fingertips.

They breathe together for a moment, and then they break. She is sobbing against his chest; his eyes are filling with tears at the sight of her in such pain. It occurs to him that perhaps he should feel uncomfortable; he has never seen her cry before, not like this. But he does not move; somehow he knows that the best thing he can do is to hold her close as her hands travel from his shoulders to his back and hold him tightly. There they stay for a moment, until she lifts her head, gives him a shaky smile. He touches her face, dries her tears, and she cradles his face with both hands then, drawing him down for a gentle kiss. Then they simply embrace, tightly, skin pressed to naked skin, arms around one another, her legs around him and him still deep inside her, both of them savoring the feeling of being closer than they have ever been before.

After a time, they separate. He slowly pulls out and helps her off the desk, and then he's hurrying to put on his trousers and shirt. She looks at him in alarm as she stands, vulnerable, leaning against his desk, and he goes to her swiftly, kisses her cheek, her lips, whispers something about cloths and water, washing up. Asks her to wait for him, and she nods, relieved. He leaves the room, barefoot, and in a moment he's back with warm water, cloths, and two blankets. She raises her eyebrows at the blankets and he shrugs, raises his eyebrows back at her, sets the blankets down on the armchair.

He strips, relieved to be naked again with her, wishing they had pyjamas with them (dressing gowns, a bed for two, a shared home), but this will have to do for now. They each clean up and then he comes to her with a blanket and she wraps it around herself; he takes the other and does the same, and then he sits in the armchair and beckons to her. She gives a little laugh but plays along, and she's surprised at how well they fit together when she is on his lap. His arm is around her and they are warm together, sleepy, happy.

He wants to ask her about the scar, but he hesitates. She can feel him tense beneath her and she lifts her head from his shoulder.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"But there is something. You just tried not to say something; I can tell."

"It's just — I wanted to ask you... You've got a —" he is struggling; she is patient (she almost always is, and he is grateful to her for it, but right now he wishes she would give up in exasperation, leave him with this thoughts for the moment because he's not ready; he's afraid, but he will try for her.)

"Yes?" She's reaching up to touch his cheek. "What is it, love?"

"A scar, darling… on your —" he gestures, embarrassed. She smiles, saves him.

"On my bosom, yes."

"Is it —" he stumbles, but he has to get it out. He says quietly, "Is it from when you were ill? When you thought you might have —?"

"Yes, my love. From when I thought I might have cancer." It's all out in the open now, and she thanks the gods for this, because she had known that he was aware of the scare, but they had never, ever mentioned it. He pauses, tries to get his voice under control, but finally he has to ask her and it comes out choked with tears.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh, Mr Carson." She touches his cheek again, reaches up to kiss his soft lips, kiss away the tear that has run down his cheek. She is somehow glad for the salt taste of it; its sharpness helps give her strength to respond. "I didn't want you to see me as ill. I didn't want you to suffer through that, and I didn't want —" she stops. Takes a deep breath. "Do you remember how difficult it was back then? No footmen? You were all on your own, and I wanted neither to add to your burdens, nor to have you see me as weak."

He has one arm around her, holding her close, and his other hand is covering his face as he breaks down. He has never shed tears about her cancer scare before and now it is all rushing out of him. Guilt at the way he'd treated her; hurt at her not having told him. The relief at finding out in the end — not from her, but from Mrs Patmore. He weeps for them, for lost time, for unnecessary pain, for young boys killed in war and for the children she and he never made together. She reaches her arms around him, shifts so that his head is against her breasts, holds him there as he lets it all out.

"I was so relieved when we found out —" He raises his head to look at her after his tears have subsided. "When we found out you weren't ill. Did you know I knew?"

She bites her lip, smiles. Catches his hand and presses it to her lips before she speaks to him softly: "I did, my love. And I heard you singing."

* * *

TBC


	7. Chapter 7: flummox

**A/N Thanks x1000 to kouw for endless amazing fabulousness and beta'ing magic! Thank you, everyone who has been reading and reviewing! It's so wonderful to hear from you and know what you think of this.**

**Unaccompanied Gaelic psalm-singing is an amazing thing. Go check it out on YouTube if you haven't heard of it!**

Definition is from Merriam-Webster again.

* * *

**Chapter 7. flummox**

**temper:** (_transitive verb_) to put in tune with something [attune]; to adjust the pitch of (a note, chord, or instrument) to a temperament

* * *

_After his tears have subsided, he speaks in a half-whisper. "I was so relieved when we found out… when we found out you weren't ill. Did you know I knew?"_

_She bites her lip, smiles. Catches his hand and presses it to her lips before she speaks, with a voice that is sure but quiet: "I did, my love. And I heard you singing."_

* * *

He smiles ruefully. "Why didn't you come talk to me?"

"What would you have done? Honestly, how would you have responded if I'd caught you singing for me and come into your pantry? I don't even know what I would have said. We certainly weren't ready for - this." She's right; he knows it, and it pains him.

"I probably would have said - God only knows what I would have said. Something awful, I'm sure."

"Maybe. I doubt it." She presses a kiss into his hair.

"Does it hurt? The scar, I mean."

"No, it doesn't hurt. Not anymore. At first it did."

"May I touch it?" She nods, moving her arms and the blanket to allow him access.

Her tender man. Sweet man, delicately touching the edges of the scar with his fingertips. He looks up, asking permission with his eyes, bends down and kisses it gently. He blesses it for being the sign of her all-clear, the healed wound that tells a story of good health and not of... he does not want to imagine the horror that might have been. Illness, suffering, death. As if that weren't enough, she had been so alone during the whole nightmare. He shudders to think of it.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Hughes." _Sorry that I wasn't there for you, that I wasn't ready. That you couldn't share it with me. _He looks up, catches her eye, tries to tell her everything with a look. He is filled with regret. He would have been there by her side; he would have done anything for her, but they were dancing around each other at the time and he thinks now that it was so absurd, so utterly pointless to keep their distance for as long as they did.

"Oh my man. It's in the past, love. We don't have to talk about it now. You know I'm not going anywhere." She's stroking his cheek now, lifting his chin, and she dips down to kiss him once, twice.

They shift so that he is holding her, with her head on his chest and his cheek resting on the crown of her head. She sighs, smiling, and nuzzles in closer, enjoying the scent of him. She lets him wrap himself around her, lets him comfort her, even protect her, and they fall asleep together. They wake up stiff, chilly, and she gets up slowly from his lap, and they help each other on with their clothing. They don't bother with stockings, socks, shoes, but go up barefoot together, holding hands. At the top they embrace once more and kiss slowly, tenderly. He kisses her hand, her fingertips, and she kisses his wrist (_she would like to kiss every part of him, this delicious, kind, passionate man), _and they go to their rooms and sink into bed, falling into deep, restful sleep.

* * *

They have both slept well, but they have no chance to see or speak to one another before breakfast in the Servants' Hall. It is a Saturday, the day for odd jobs, and today is filled with packing and preparations. He and she will return to Downton on Monday and the family and other servants will return a day later, leaving the London staff to close the house.

She walks through the halls, her expression stern, her keys jingling. She is watching the preparations for their departure, checking the maids' work. They are stripping unused rooms and cleaning them, and the Ladies' Maids are packing, with the help of the housemaids (Mrs Hughes wants to roll her eyes at the mere idea of all the finery owned by the ladies of the house). She is looking forward to being at home again - and to making their new home, making a life that is truly theirs together.

That night they drink wine together in his pantry. They've come downstairs after changing into pyjamas and dressing gowns so that she can curl on his lap again, unrestrained by her corset. They had stolen out of their rooms after Mr Molesley and Miss Baxter were asleep (although she wishes as well that they could fling those two into a room together, just to make the space for her and him). To everyone else, they look innocent, chaste. Too old for this. No one imagines the passion between them; people do not think for a moment that these two delight and burn in each other's touch, that he has tasted her and she him.

He relishes the feeling of her warm softness against his chest, in his arms. It's the closest they can get to sleeping in a shared bed. For now.

"Mr Carson, I'm going to the Scottish church tomorrow morning. Would you like to join me?"

"Hmm…" he says sleepily. "Yes, I should like that very much indeed."

* * *

In the morning they go to St Columba's, the Scottish church in Pont Street. They walk there, arm in arm. If they were in a hurry, they could get there in forty-five minutes, but they are not in a hurry, and they walk slowly, her gloved hand tucked into his elbow. She is enjoying the feeling of walking publicly with him, elegant and handsome in his bowler hat and Sunday suit. At their comfortable pace, it takes about an hour until they they round a corner and see the church standing before them. It is built in the Neo-Gothic style of the end of the last century, and he finds it dignified, beautiful.

It is lovely inside with the morning sun streaming through stained glass windows, and she leads them to one of the pews, greeting a few of the other congregants. She had told him that this service would be in Gaelic and while she loves the old style, she is nervous for him to be here. She is worried he will not understand the service and he will be bored, frustrated, alone. That he will find her strange for being part of this.

He was initially uncomfortable at the idea of a Gaelic service, but he adapts quickly (_He bends more and more, her man of softening stone and flexible wood._) Some of it is familiar - the rhythm of liturgy, the progression from prayers to Communion to dismissal - some unknown. The way that the Psalms are sung (he'd never know it was the Psalms if not for her whispering it in his ear) is incredible to him - a heartrending, stark, dreamy call-and-response he'd never expected. A solitary male voice begins singing, and the voices of the congregation swell gradually together. The slight alterations, the slight deviations from unison, make the combined effect that much stronger. Individual voices blend together, lilting individually, coming back home to a single note.

It sounds like heather and stone, a silver creek winding through great wide lonely moors. Cloudy skies, gale winds, waves crashing against cold stone. Churches, farms. A young girl, blue-eyed and dark-haired, leaving for a different life. There's so much he doesn't know about her.

_No wonder she wants to come here, _he thinks. _It must feel like a little bit of home._

He considers humming along, but he's not quite ready at first to join in. This kind of singing is so foreign to him. Moving, but unfamiliar, and at first he doesn't quite trust himself to do it, to sing along. He certainly doesn't know the words, but the melody moves slowly enough that he can jump in. He holds back for a while, feeling shy and exposed, but then he tries to summon the courage he used to have when he performed on the stage. He tries to remember that passionate young man as he attempts to hum along and his voice rumbles, an octave below most of them. He is sure they can all hear him when he makes a mistake, but she squeezes his hand as they sing together.

* * *

"Is that the way your church was in Argyll?"

"Aye... Yes." She is quiet on their way back to Grantham House.

"Do you miss it? In Yorkshire?" He speaks softly, so that only she can hear.

"I do, Mr Carson."

She is not very talkative but he wants her to know that she has his support, his love, so he puts his hand over hers and gives it a gentle squeeze. They walk arm-in-arm together, back toward Grantham House. After a time, she speaks again, quietly.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes, I did. Very much indeed." _It was an honor to be there with you. To know more about you. You shared something with me I've never seen, never heard before, and it was beautiful on its own but it was the lovelier because it's part of you._ How can he say these things? He wants to find a way, but there are too many thoughts, too much emotion for him quite to get there, so he tries to start with a small thing, an easy thing.

"I've never heard singing like that."

She bites her lip, wondering what he means. Whether it was too wild for him, too Scottish (_He is so very, very English, her buttoned-up man, but he has been coming undone a bit, loosening the ties that restrict him to the role of a butler._). She thinks wildly of that phrase, _coming undone_; it is something they have been doing quite a bit together lately, and the singing today is another kind of release for her. It reminds her of home, yes, and while home wasn't always good, the blending of voices in church had always been a refuge for her, a joy.

"It was beautiful," he continues, and she is relieved, looks up at him with a sad smile.

Having him with her there made her feel foreign, exposed, as if she were showing him something embarrassing from her girlhood. (That's not right; she has never been embarrassed about the old songs, and to be honest she was not embarrassed about them today, not really. She had just never shared them with anyone but other Scottish people, and the passion of the mixed voices is so very different from the passion they've shared. So different, especially, from the rules they enforce, the orderly house they run, the decorum of high tea and society weddings.)

She has known the people at St Columba's church for just a few weeks, but she's chatted with some of the women, and she's felt at home, welcomed. She supposes they _would_ welcome a newcomer as their own more readily here - where they are all isolated to some extent - than back home. The lilt and burr of her speech have immediately connected her to the others in the pews; she is not marked out as different here.

There's sorrow in her long separation from home, grief in all she's been through and all that a life of service requires them to give up or bury deep within. Love, privacy, the freedom of the open air - these are things she's traded for security, the prestige of her position. She's been quite pleased with her life in service, all things considered. Life on a farm was hard, but she is used to hard work even now. Her family was loving, if strict. It wasn't a bad life, but it was unrelenting, spartan, a livelihood that depended too closely on the whims of the elements. She does not regret her choices, but she is surprised to find she aches for home on occasion - especially now that the old songs have brought her memories to the surface.

She is hopeful, though, for their future together. She is far more than hopeful, really; she is overjoyed with it. It is a sweet and tender thing to have found each other - and so _passionately_ - at this late hour. They are awfully good together (a team - in the house, in life, in bed - but then, they have not yet been in bed together. They have been together up against a wall, on a table, in a chair, on a desk. Burning up together, taking what they can get for now, until public ceremony blesses their union and gives it a space, a private space all their own). She is sad for the life she's leaving, for the two of them getting older. She hopes they will have many long years together, but she grieves the loss of their youth, the time they could have had together, even the bairns they could have made.

There are tears for this too, and they will be shed someday, fully, but for now she just has them welling in her eyes and she tries to hide them, to will them away. It is not that she minds shedding tears in front of him (_not much, anyway_); she's done it before, last night when they had come crashing together again, loving hungrily, holding on tightly. She had fallen apart against him, and he had wept too, sobbing as she held him against her chest.

But this is different; they are in public and this is not the cascade of release but the slow tears of private grief that feels too loud, too bright in this unprotected space. Something about the singing today had touched a sad, young place inside her and she is struggling, trying to rebuild the façade. The psalm singing had always been a refuge. But now that he has her heart and she has his, openly, the old songs (yes, old songs that are always new, always improvised, collectively created and ephemeral) have moved her in a way that is unfamiliar. Her heart is breaking open.

Her hand is in the crook of his elbow and he can feel her body tense. He slows to a stop and turns to her. She looks away, hiding her tears.

"Darling, what's the matter?"

She waves her hands, covers her mouth. Swallows hard, digging in her handbag for a handkerchief. He hands her his, and she thanks him, dabs at her tears with it, breathes in deeply, breathes out. She tells her pounding heart to calm itself, tells herself she is safe, loved, not alone. She is still looking away as she calms down. After several more deep breaths she purses her lips, looks into his eyes.

"I'm glad you liked it," she manages to get out.

He looks at her, brow furrowed, kindness in his eyes. He reaches out to draw her in close, but she gives him a tiny shake of her head, fearing that his embrace would bring on more tears.

"Ask me later; I don't want to talk about it now." He nods, gives her the space she needs to swallow her tears for the sake of appearances.

* * *

That night they are together in her sitting room, sharing wine, holding hands across the small table. They have toed off their shoes and their feet rest together, comfortably.

"Are you alright, Mrs Hughes?" he asks her quietly. She is tracing patterns in the wood grain of the table with one finger.

She smiles at him like the day with the fair-day doll, but with a touch more sadness, and he feels a rush of love for her that brings a lump to his throat. This lovely woman, this precious creature has decided he is the one she loves, and his heart breaks with the beauty of it, of her in the gentle lamp-light.

"I am, I suppose. Or I will be." She wants to talk about it, and she doesn't want to. What is _"it_" anyway, but a lifetime of stories, a tapestry of wants, needs, desires, thwarted, fulfilled so late in the day? He knows most of it; that's the beauty of their long-burning, slowly-built love. What he does not know, she can tell him. Her words could never make him feel that music as she had felt it as a girl, and her stories can never make him understand what it was to walk on the stones among the heather with holes in her shoes, but she will give him her words and take his in return and they will grow together from now on, entwined with one another.

She tries to start with the simple. "The singing today in church…" she purses her lips, looking for the words. "I told you it was like that in Argyll. It meant a great deal to me to have you there. That music…" (she feels like the words are coming out all wrong, confused). "It was always a comfort to me. At home. Well, I mean, it's not home anymore. But in Argyll."

He squeezes her hand, thinking that perhaps he understands, hoping that she will tell him more. She is not usually one to stumble over her words. Something must be off. Charles Carson, for all his bluster, for all his upright propriety, is keenly perceptive of the emotions of others. He looks into her eyes, those lovely deep blue eyes of hers, with his brow furrowed. _Darling, you are safe with me. Please tell me what is wrong, what is troubling you._

Maybe it is too soon for them to talk about some things. Their love is certain, beyond question. Their commitment is as well. Maybe they just need some space, some time. Familiar surroundings, and the privacy to speak, cry out, love, and grieve. In full voice. Giving and taking, together.

* * *

TBC


	8. Chapter 8: Fontenoy

**A/N:** Thank you so much, everyone, for your kind words! Some of you have shared things with me about music that has moved you, and I'm so happy that (1) the story resonates with you, and (2) you see fit to share it with me! What an honor.

Thank you as always, and more than ever, to the wonderful kouw for the beta-magic. A great deal of this story is developing through conversations with you, and it's a joy to have your friendship and braintwin-fangirling. You're a fantastic writing buddy.

* * *

**Chapter 8. Fontenoy**

* * *

They awaken early on Monday and meet in his pantry, just for a quick kiss before they join the staff for breakfast. The bells have not yet begun ringing when they set out on foot with their small valises, heading for King's Cross station and the 8:30 train. They find a seat on the train isolated from the few other passengers leaving for York at this relatively early hour. After changing trains at York and then taking the bus from Ripon to Downton, they arrive on foot at the big house in mid-afternoon.

They take tea in her sitting room. They always take tea together, but this time it is different, more intimate. Their chairs are pulled close together. His arm is around her waist, her head on his shoulder.

It is strange but relaxing to have this day's respite with none of the family at Downton. Lady Edith has gone to Switzerland, it seems, and she is expected back next week. Mrs Hughes doesn't know why, but she'll find out in due time. For now, she has more pressing things to think about.

Tomorrow the flurry of activity will begin, with all of the unpacking, sorting, and laundry, on top of the normal routine of upstairs meals, tea, outings, and so on. The mere thought of it makes her tired, and she's glad of the short three weeks that remain until this routine will be over for them. While she makes her rounds and checks the linen rota, she reminds herself which guest rooms are furthest from the servants' stairs. Normally she would not even consider taking advantage of her authority this way, but tonight it must be. Tonight she will lie with him and they will stay until morning,

The Fontenoy room will do nicely.

After he dismisses the staff from supper, she touches his hand, holding him back.

"I'm going to have a bath, and then you can meet me in Fontenoy." She is matter-of-fact. They are in charge here. There is no one to catch them at it.

"What? Darling, we can't - "

"We can. Just tonight. I don't fancy sleeping alone again, do you?"

"Well, no. Of course not. But sneaking around - "

She rolls her eyes and gives him a smile. There is no wickedness in her grin, but perhaps a touch of frustration. She pulls him to her, kisses him with all the sweetness she can muster when he's being so _absurd_, making things so _difficult_.

He gives in. Of course he does. They collect pyjamas, toothbrushes, his shaving kit. Make their way to separate baths.

They lock their doors in the attic, just in case.

* * *

She opens the door to find him standing at the window, barefoot on the plush carpet. He is in pyjamas and dressing gown, his hands clasped behind his back. He turns to her as she closes the door. He's washed his hair and left it without pomade; his curls are unruly and he looks… amazing. He no longer looks like a butler, but like her man, her lovely man, at last. Her deep blue eyes meet his, brown edged with grey, capable of such thunder, now filled with tenderness. She turns the key in the lock and goes to him; he welcomes her into his embrace and for a time they just stand together, holding one another. She has left her hair down and he buries his nose in its coconut scent, lifts the heavy silk, lets his fingers slide through it.

She's made up the room herself today and laid the finest cotton sheets under a sumptuous counterpane. He's turned down the covers and switched on the lamps on either side of the bed.

She runs her hands lightly up and down his broad, strong back. He sighs with pleasure, rests his chin on the crown of her head, closes his eyes. He smiles into the softly-lit room. She looks up at him with those intoxicating eyes, strokes his cheek, and draws him down to her for a slow kiss. Their kisses are nourishment; they are cool water and hot honey, and he runs his hand lightly from her shoulder down to her hand, entwines his fingers with hers, holds on.

They are in uncharted territory. Never have they had such time together, never so much privacy. He brings their joined hands to his lips, presses a kiss onto their fingers, and she gives him a tiny smile. She rests her other hand on his chest, feels his heart pounding, and it is reassuring to know that she is not alone in this. It is a little nerve-wracking to be together tonight. She feels like she shouldn't be so nervous, but there it is. She gives a quiet laugh and looks down at their hands.

He is a little worried as well (a nervous bridegroom on the wedding night). He wants this to be perfect . He wonders what to do next. The other times they've… _been together_... have been rushed and furious. They were desperate to give and take quickly before clocks and duties forced them apart. To be here with so much time, in all of this gentle light and luxury - this is all new. And this intimacy, together in an actual bedroom, throws the urgency and inadequacy of their first trysts into sharp relief.

She looks up at him with tears in her eyes.

"Oh, my love." He strokes her cheek. He has been wanting to ask her what is wrong since she wept against him in London, but the time has never been right. "Please, darling, talk to me."

"I - I can't -" Her tears start to fall and he hugs her close, letting her sobs come crashing against him. When she extracts herself and pulls him toward the bed, he is alarmed. They can't. Not like this. But as he starts to shake his head, she sits on the edge of the bed, pats the place next to her, so he joins her, taking her hands in his own. She doesn't speak, so he decides to tell her what is in his heart, hopes she accepts it.

"Can I tell you a story?" She nods, relieved. It is all too much, too much outpouring; she is emptying herself and there is too much to express. Those public words are all well and good, powerful in their own way, but in all these years she has kept all of _this_ buried deeply. She has never tried to shape the private words to fit her own storming secret heart.

She has had passion in her life; she is no stranger to young love. But with him it is different, so very different from the quick kisses, moments stolen behind the barn door. This is everything; this is agony and joy, and the intimacy of it is daunting, so she is glad to leave her emotions in peace for a moment and listen, absorb something for a time - especially from him. He who has given her his heart but has not yet bared it. She is tired of pushing away his apologies, of keeping her own walls closed. Tired of trying to seal the cracks that would allow her to slip away, leak out, pour forth.

He kisses her hands and then gets up and takes off his dressing gown, folds it over one arm. He helps her out of hers, and then he drapes both garments over the back of a chair. Attentively, precisely. Then he comes to her, takes her hand and kisses it once more, and pulls her gently with him as he slides into bed. And then there they are, sitting in bed together, just as if they'd always done this, as if love and habit and home were theirs for the taking, as if they had always been right there (and they have been, really, but any other constellation of events that could have driven them together might have been too hasty, less true).

They sit together with his arm around her. Her hand is over his on her shoulder, closing off her chest, her arm pressing against her breastbone. He is nervous at first, with pounding heart and freezing hands (even on stage he was never this nervous; there he could hide behind another persona but here it is nothing but him and her, and he is out on a limb but he trusts her and it's time, it's finally time for him to give himself to her - in heart, as he has done in body). His hands grow warmer as he calms, easing into the recounting of an old story that he's never shared before. As he speaks, she gradually relaxes into him, taking his other hand in both of hers.

He tells her the story of a young boy, studious and serious. A hallboy whose mother was a charwoman, his father a groom. A little boy with skinny legs and a big nose. Charlie, with the sisters he'd never gotten to know. Two tiny bodies in the churchyard, just a year and a half apart. One before three months, the other before she even drew breath. He was only two, three years old when they were born; he never understood what had happened until he was much older. His parents never spoke of it.

His parents tried to give him all they could, until one day he broke their hearts by leaving, stars in his eyes. As he tells her this, she wonders how that serious boy could have gone for a job in vaudeville, but she waits, knowing he will tell her in his own time.

He dreamed of fame, excitement, a real career on the stage. Drury Lane and Covent Garden. He remembers trying to get auditions. He was ignored, turned away at the door if he even made it there. He'd wanted to make a go of it, and he was damn good. But he was a working-class lad, no connections, no nothing. Just raw talent and a hunger for performance. And that is what the manager saw, the one who put together the Cheerful Charlies. The reality of it was much more sordid than he'd hoped. He doesn't tell her about the raunchy talk from the dancing girls, barely allows himself even to think of the stories from the other men (_he doesn't want to remember the filth they used to speak - not in her presence._)

He came home with an empty wallet and a broken heart. His parents' welcome was tinged with hopelessness - his father was on his deathbed with a cold turned to pneumonia, just a few days left. His mother was a hollow, ghostly thing. He got serious again very quickly.

So Charlie had come back to the big house, an overgrown, too-old hallboy who quickly moved up to footman, underbutler, and finally butler. His time on the stage was an embarrassment he tried to forget. Losing Alice was a pain he kept hidden behind an ironclad façade. By the time Charlie Grigg came back with his apology in his hands, he no longer felt the heartbreak, only bitterness at the betrayal, the underhandedness of the whole mess.

He tells her about how angry he had been with her for taking that letter from his wastepaper bin, and how grateful he is for her meddling. How glad he is that she gently forced him to unearth the old pain, examine it, make peace with it. To sew up the open wound. She has been resting her head on his shoulder and she looks up, smiles at him quoting her words back to her. She has been letting his voice wash over her. He does not gesture as he often would when telling a story; he does not even look up as she smiles at him. He is concentrating, staring at their hands on her lap.

He tells her the story of how he fell in love with her, how he tried to hide it, bury it away. It became so difficult to conceal that sometimes he took shelter in unkind words, pushing her away when the urge to draw her closer almost overpowered him.

He falters.

His tears are coming now and he looks up at the ceiling, dries his eyes with the sleeve of his pyjamas. She takes his hand and kisses his fingertips, one by one. He takes a deep, shaking breath. Then he tells her what he felt that day in the library when he held little Miss Sybbie, reminisced about the baby's mother, and then told _her_ there was no need to get sentimental. How he saw the hurt in her eyes, the pain she quickly masked.

He apologizes. He remembers so many times he's been unkind to her. Calling her a disappointment, accusing her of having no standards. Claiming them upstairs as the only family he had.

This time she does not deflect it. She takes his apology and tucks it away in her open heart, accepts it.

He tells her he loves her.

She tells him she loves him right back.

"Thank you for your story." It is a benediction, a tremendous thing for them to share this, and soon she will share hers with him but this isn't the moment for it, not yet. There is no need to clutter the air with too many tales at once. His story is resonating; he has filled the room with it and her heart is full of it as well, brimming with it, spilling over, and she didn't think it was possible for her to love him more but here they are, and her heart hurts with it, and it is a joyful pain.

They cry together, and the drying of tears becomes a caress, and then, with his arm still around her and her face in the crook of his neck, she trails kisses up the soft skin there until she reaches his jawline, his cheek, then she is kissing his mouth. Slowly, so slowly. His stubble is just coming in. She can feel it against her palm, her fingertips as she reaches up to him. He breaks the kiss, runs his fingers over her cheekbones, her jaw, and his thumb lingers on her lower lip. She opens her mouth slightly and kisses his thumb, bites it gently. They smile at the reversal of roles from their day at the beach. How things have changed since those charged sunlit moments.

Twice they have burned together, hurried and desperate, but tonight they will take their time, loving slowly, weighing out the minutes and hours until morning.

* * *

TBC


	9. Chapter 9: floating

**a/n Thank you, kouw, as always, for the extensive and awesome beta-magic! You're amazeballs! Thanks, everyone who has been reading and reviewing! You are all lovely!**

* * *

_They cry together, and the drying of tears becomes a caress, and then, with his arm still around her and her face in the crook of his neck, she trails kisses up the soft skin there until she reaches his jawline, his cheek, then she is kissing his mouth. Slowly, so slowly. His stubble is just coming in. She can feel it against her palm, her fingertips as she reaches up to him. He breaks the kiss, runs his fingers over her cheekbones, her jaw, and his thumb lingers on her lower lip. She opens her mouth slightly and kisses his thumb, bites it gently. They smile at the reversal of roles from their day at the beach. How things have changed since those charged sunlit moments._

_Twice they have burned together, hurried and desperate, but tonight they will take their time, loving slowly, weighing out the minutes and hours until morning._

* * *

**Chapter 9. floating**

She shifts until she is sitting on his lap, settles herself firmly against him. Straddling him. He has not wanted to be too forward tonight, not after the storm of emotion they've both weathered today. Not when she was so vulnerable. But now she is pressed against him, with her arms around his neck, and she draws back, letting her nose and lips graze his ear. He takes a deep, shaking breath.

He is almost dizzy with the sensations of her mouth at his ear, her thighs around him. She kisses his nose to make him smile and leaves little kisses on his cheeks, his jawline, his neck. She trails her fingers down to the first button of his pyjamas and undoes this button, the next, opening up his shirt little by little to lay bare his warm skin. Then she is peeling back his collar and kissing him, just at the hollow of his collarbone. No one has ever touched him there before, and certainly not with such heat, such unhurried intensity.

"I love you." He thrills to the sound of her whisper, to the feel of her hot breath on his sensitive skin.

They've said it before, but every time they say it it feels new, different. Richer, older, deeper. A fine wine aged to perfection, her burgundy to his oak barrel.

"I love you." His voice, gods, the things it does to her.

She pulls back to look at him, tangles her fingers in his unruly hair again. She can't stop; she delights in it, the curly mess she never gets to see, certainly never got to _touch_ until just a few days ago when they'd finally kissed, burning together in the bright sunshine.

How beautiful he is to her when he is a bit undone; how delicious it is to feel the way she affects him. She would be weak in the knees if she were standing, but she is not standing; she is sitting on his lap, savoring the feeling of his hardness growing against her softness.

His hands are at her waist and she grasps them, brings them to her breasts. She moans as he touches her, runs his fingers over her nipples through the nightgown. He watches her, listens to her responding to his touch, and he realizes again with a thrill that she _wants_ _him. _And he is _joyful_, oh yes, because she is smiling down at him again with those incredible eyes and undoing a few more buttons, slipping her warm hand down his front, taking her time, loving the soft silver hair of his chest with the smooth skin of her fingertips.

Finally the shirt is gone, landing softly on the carpet, and she leans down, curls her body so that she can kiss her way across his chest. Every movement is a caress, every touch a loving exploration, and she's discovered that he shivers when she runs her fingers across the crook of his elbow, and he groans with pleasure when she breathes hot against his ear.

His hands drop to her hips again and he pulls at her nightgown. She rises up on her knees to allow him to pull the light cotton garment up; she never wears knickers to sleep and his hands are warm on her bare skin, running up and down her thighs and cupping her bottom. She is covering him with kisses and he is breathless before her, this silken wanton woman who touches him with a passion he could never have imagined.

He whispers in her ear, asks her permission. She grants it, lets him run his hands under the hem of her nightgown, and oh, the feeling of his hands as they slide over that unaccustomed skin. She lifts her nightgown, slowly takes it off, lets it fall silently on top of his shirt. She rises again to kiss his mouth, hovers over him with her hands on the headboard, and suddenly he is _everywhere. _His mouth on her nipple, one hand caressing her bottom, the other seeking her folds, moving her with an agonizingly light touch. He gives a soft gasp as he feels how wet she is. For _him_. She begins to moan, to shake as his touch gradually changes to firm long strokes, and then she is shuddering toward her climax, thrusting against him, drunk on his touch. She arches, stretches taut, crying out her pleasure and her love for this man who brings her such sweet torment, such tremendous release. She is draped around him, over him, catching her breath, and they fall together, side by side, her hair tumbling around her shoulders and onto the pillow, and he is lavishing kisses on her face, her breasts, her hands.

She runs a hand over his side, his hip, reaches for his waistband.

His pyjama bottoms land on the pile of clothing, and he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her in close. She hooks one leg over his hip and they hold on to each other, forehead to forehead, lying naked in bed together, at long last.

His hardness is pressing hot against her thigh and she reaches down to touch him. His breath hitches when she makes contact, her fingertips ghosting over him. She wraps her hand around him and he is moaning deeply, that gorgeous voice rumbling in his chest. He gasps as she releases him, but he has no time to worry because now she is shocking; she is gently pushing his hip, turning him onto his back, settling herself between his thighs and slowly taking him into her mouth.

She hums with it, remembering the magic he worked when he touched her as she touches him now, loving the smooth skin, the heft of him in her mouth. She slides tongue and lips around him and he gasps with pleasure. She watches, feels, listens - learning what makes him writhe beneath her, what makes his hands grasp at air. She kneels there and strokes his thighs, blesses his most sensitive skin with light fingertips, makes him moan and twist the sheets in his hands.

She can tell he is hesitant, so she talks to him. Tells him she wants to do this for him, tells him she is enjoying it. And she is, gods, she never imagined it could be like this, all heat and restraint and silky skin, and the stroke of him inside her mouth is more intimate than anything she's experienced before. She delights in his pleasure, in the way that her gentle and insistent touch can push him to the brink, make him lose control.

He is close, and he is worried. He thinks he should spare her this, doesn't know if she wants it, and yet some primal part of him wants to let go and come in her pretty mouth - _but surely he can't, can't think these things, let alone __do__ them. _He is afraid of defiling her, disrespecting her, so he tries to stop her, asks her if she knows, if she minds. He is stunned when she answers him by crawling up to straddle his chest, whisper in his ear. Her hot breath, her voice - gods, that brogue of hers winds itself through her syllables as she says the most erotic thing he's ever heard.

"Yes, my man. I know. I want you to come. Please. Come for me."

And she is moving back down his body, trailing kisses down his chest, and she takes him into her mouth again. Now her hands are on him as well, stroking, cupping, and he is dying, he is falling, he is made of nothing but sensation, and she hums her delight, her pride at making this man (_this most reserved, most proper of men_) go mad with pleasure. He tenses and cries out and then it is over; he spills himself into her mouth and she knew it would happen and she takes it in, swallows his seed.

_It's not as bad as all that_, she thinks. She wasn't born yesterday; she's heard a few things about this part. She was expecting it to be awful, and admittedly, it's not something she'd necessarily want to taste every day. But in the end, she doesn't really care. It doesn't matter, and especially not tonight, because she has made this wonderful man, her man, fall to pieces, _like this_, and it was good, and she loves him and she too is proud, happy, to give pleasure to her lover, to drive him mad with her mouth just as he does to her.

She softly releases him, kisses him once more right there and draws the blankets up over them as she crawls up to join him on their pillows, dropping kisses on his abdomen, his chest. She lies with her head on his shoulder, wraps herself around him, sighs happily.

And he's adoring, astonished, grateful. His woman, the proper and authoritative Mrs Hughes, has just … he has no words for this holy, wanton act. Not even in his darkest fantasies has he imagined that she would do _that_, would _want_ to do that. But here she is, smiling, eyes closed against his chest, holding him tightly.

"Mrs Hughes, I - my love - thank you. I never thought -"

And she is laughing, and it is a soft, lovely thing and he gets up on his elbows to kiss her. He can taste himself on her lips, just faintly and he smiles, can't quite believe his luck, can't fathom what this woman does to him.

They are warm, tangled together, and they sleep. Two lovers, joyful, at peace.

* * *

TBC


	10. Chapter 10: found

**a/n** Thanks for your reviews! It's such a delight to read what you think of this. Don't stop, baby, don't stop!

And as always, a thousand thanks to the wonderful kouw for conversations, beta magic, letting me know when I don't make any sense, and checking my laziness with the English language (and with such wonderful topics as Elsie Hughes' possible reaction to the taste of semen. tralalalala. if you don't know what that's about, you've missed something. go back to chapter 9.)

Thank you to partiallyyours for inspiring a few lines in this that i outright stole (with permission) from her divine story, "Together with a Crash."

The carsonxhughes shippy community is filled with so many nice people. Thanks, ya'll. We are a bunch of weirdos, and I couldn't be happier. xoxo!

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**Chapter 10. Found**

* * *

She wakes up first. She's warm, lying in cotton sheets so fine they might as well be silk. Naked. With him wrapped around her, her back to his chest. It's still dark outside, but both lamps are still on, and she extracts herself from his embrace just enough to reach for the table on her side of the bed.

He stirs as soon as she does. Half-asleep, he tries to hold her tighter in his arms, to stop her leaving, and she smiles. _Such sweetness from this man of stone, of the stern and impeccable façade. Yes, here is the man who decants wine, staring through thunderous brows, searching for imperfections. Here is the man who sang the song with the smoothing iron._

She manages to turn off the lamp, then she lies back down, pulling his arm tighter around her. She stretches her legs and he covers her breast with his large, warm hand, eliciting a quiet, contented moan from her.

How indescribably lovely it is to wake up together.

He is holding her for all he's worth. They know this night cannot last forever, and tomorrow night it's most likely back to their solitary beds, so they draw it out with languid touches that arouse him and her alike.

They are pressed together, skin against skin. She can feel his desire swelling against her bottom and he's slowly running his hand over her body, caressing her everywhere. He strokes the tender skin of her arm, the skin he worshipped just a few days ago on the beach. He laces his fingers with hers and brings their joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss there.

Her hair is still down; she has not bothered with a braid tonight and it is all around her shoulders. He brushes the lovely silk of it aside to expose the soft skin of her neck and begins lavishing kisses there, across her shoulders, all over her bare skin. Each kiss sends a tremor of pleasure through her. His hand continues its loving exploration, lingering at her breast, gently pressing, lightly rolling her nipple, and she shudders with it.

And then his hand is running slowly, luxuriously, from her breast down along her waist, across her hip, and he cups her bottom, strokes down her thigh, and she opens up for him. He groans deeply as his hand strokes along the silky skin of her inner thigh. He reaches her sex and he cups her lightly, just resting his hand against her for a moment.

Then he's parting her there, starting to stroke her, to press and slide, and she writhes, her moans becoming louder. Her thighs come together, squeeze around his hand and the sensation of it is incredible for both of them. His hand is more or less trapped, his movement therefore limited.

But the restraint adds to the heat for both of them. They've been so controlled for so long, and they've discovered by accident that they like a little restraint, that a slight limitation allows them to soar that much higher. It was in the wine cellar that he first kept her from his mouth, holding her back by her hair. He barely realized what he was doing at the time, but he noticed her response, oh yes. Just as she noticed his when she held him back to tell him to go to the armchair (_to order him, because that's exactly what she did, and gods, he loved it_).

Now he moves against her, slides a finger just inside. His hand is working subtle magic, bringing tremendous sensation with the smallest of movements. He whispers sweetness into her ear, words of love that turn to words of desire, need, lust, and she is flying higher and higher, not quite there until he eases his knee in between hers, opens her up that little bit, moves his hand more freely and his other hand tangles in the hair at the nape of her neck, pulling it just so as he kisses the freckled skin of her shoulder. She is frantic, making unknown sounds, and then she goes to pieces entirely, arching and tensing, with ecstatic screams that she muffles in the pillow.

He holds her gently, leaving light kisses on her shoulder, her back, any place he can reach, and she trembles as she comes down from the most intense climax she's ever had.

After a few moments she turns in his arms to face him and there is happiness on her face, in her touch when she reaches for him. She is still gasping and she buries her face in the crook of his neck. There is no sorrow this time, just release and joy and love, yes - so much love that they are shaking with it as they hold one another, keeping it safe there in the tiny spaces between their bodies.

* * *

His lips are at her ear. It's barely a sound, not even a whisper, but she hears it.

"Elsie."

She gasps. "Say it again." It is just a breath, as quiet as his.

"Elsie, my darling, my love."

It makes her heart clench, soar, break open even further, and she draws him to her and kisses his mouth softly, pulling away only long enough to whisper.

"I love you, my man. I love you." She repeats it, cannot stop saying it, punctuates her words with more kisses, and as her kisses grow more urgent, she reaches down to touch him. He is ready and so is she and she pulls him over her, welcomes him. She wraps her arms and legs around him and he buries his moan in the pillow as he sinks into her. She encourages him and they move together.

He is deep inside her and together they climb higher, slowly, soaring, and she touches herself and it is overwhelming for her, for both of them, and she is coming, keening with it, and her orgasm brings on his. He's spilling inside her, losing himself, and she holds him tight to stop him pulling away. He doesn't want to crush her but she wants his weight on her, if only for a moment, and she tells him so. He relaxes against her and she hums her joy, her satisfaction. There are kisses - everywhere they can reach. Lips. Noses, with a giggle. Necks, shoulders, with little sighs of pleasure. After a time they separate, falling together onto soft pillows.

He reaches back to turn off the lamp and when he comes back she takes his hand, pulls his arm around her and turns away, pressing her back into him so that they can fall asleep as they woke. Together, with him wrapped around her. She puts his hand back on her breast and there is no space between them, just skin against warm skin, hearts beating together.

"Elsie." His voice, deep and soft.

"Hmmmm." He can hear her smile as she hums into the darkened room.

"I love you."

"I love you too, my man."

* * *

He hopes she will say his name soon. Share her story, give him her open heart. But he trusts her. And he knows it's been a long time coming; he knows that in their past he hasn't made it easy for her to trust him. He will not push her; he just hopes that telling his story and giving of himself will help her do the same. He's hopeful that it will, and with this thought in his mind, he drifts off.

* * *

She cannot remember a time when she felt such bliss. She wants to give him her open heart, tell him her tales, and she is ready. She will tell him all those precious mundane things and he will tuck her stories away into his heart and they will hold one another and never let go.

But for now, they rest. She touches his hand that lies over her breast, gives a deep, contented sigh, and gives herself over to a deep, restful sleep.

* * *

TBC


	11. Chapter 11: fable

**a/n** Thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, reblogged, loved this, hated it, had their pants explode (yes? i hope so), laughed, cried, etc. Special thanks as always to the ever-wonderful **kouw **for our zauberhafte Zusammenarbeit and all of the other awesomeness! And thank you **chelsie fan** and **libbybell** for the discussions about the name switch! It is a big deal for them to use first names after all this time.

**Tell me what you think! I want to heeeaaar your thooouuuuuugghhts (and your feeeeels)**

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**Chapter 11. fable**

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Four days it's been since their beautiful stolen night. (_Not stolen_, she thinks. _Taken, no harm done. Well-earned._) They've barely had time to breathe, much less kiss, much less reach and press and nibble (oh but they have, she has pushed him against the wall of his pantry as he stood helpless, blissful as she took him into her mouth. And he has locked the door to her sitting room at her invitation, lifted her skirts, tasted her, taken her over her desk. There is need, burning, primal between them, but tenderness winds itself around every touch, every movement, every sorrow at the necessity of their parting.

Four days, and she can't take it anymore. His name is ready on her lips, her story waiting in her mouth. The hustle and bustle of the upstairs arrival has finally died down.

"We need to go to Fontenoy tonight," she tells him calmly over their evening sherry.

He gasps. Hope and love and worry are all on his face. A flicker of desire in his eyes. He starts to protest, something about the family, getting caught, whatever.

"We can, love. They're all away at the shooting party tomorrow." Her voice is soft but insistent.

He acquiesces; of course he does, and they meet in the luxurious room. She's made it up herself again, stealing a moment this afternoon to slip among the cracks and shadows of this old house. She went unnoticed as she carried the stack of fine bed linens, the usual jingle of keys and stern expression her unassailable front as she passed through the halls.

* * *

They go to the room separately, in their clothing from the evening - a nod to the heightened risk of discovery. They carry pyjamas, the necessities. She gets there first, turns on the lamps, turns down the covers. He arrives and when they are both in pyjamas they find each other, her arms around his middle and his around her shoulders, and his fingers play in her hair.

She bites her lip. Her heart is pounding , her hands cold, and she pulls him toward the bed, a small frown creasing her brow. He wants to reach out to her, smooth that concern out of her forehead, but he lets her lead him. They sit against the headboard, facing each other. It is not very comfortable, but she wants to look at his face as she opens her heart.

He takes her hands in his to warm them, and she begins.

"I'm so thankful for the story you told me. I've been wanting to share my own with you ever since you told me yours. Well. Since before that, really, but before that night I wasn't ready."

He closes his eyes, speaks his regret. "I'm sorry I've made things so difficult for you, my love." He knows it was he who was not ready. She got here much sooner than he did, but she needed him to open up to her before she could fully trust him. He reaches up to touch her cheek with his fingertips. He looks at her kindly (_it is a rare and beautiful thing to see him so intent, so full of love_). He waits.

"But since that night I've been wanting to tell you. The time hasn't been right, but now here we are." She gives a soft laugh, and he joins her, but he is cautious. He doesn't honestly think he is about to scare her off with some sudden movement or word, but he's careful nonetheless not to speak out of turn.

So she tells him about a young girl, headstrong and difficult. Bruised knees from playing, running, falling. Blue eyes, dark hair. Small but strong, skipping rocks in the loch. Elsie, whose parents called her Elspeth when she got a scolding. Which was frequent; she is stern and proper now but she was once quite the little prankster.

He chuckles at this last little gem. It is unsurprising that this woman of wry smile and sparkling eyes should have been a mischievous child, and he hopes she will tell him stories of her exploits someday.

She tells him of hard work on the farm. Cold winters, thin shoes. Her mother, stubborn and strong as the daughters she bore. Her father, that quiet man who treated his wife and daughters well, hoped for a son and grew sadder as the years went by and no more bairns grew in her belly. There was no one left to run the farm when he died suddenly - an accident in the fields. Her mother went to live with one of Elsie's aunts, her two daughters leaving for a different life, hoping that it would be better, unsure of what would come.

She tells him about entering service, coming to Downton. How it was a hard journey, one that hardened her as well. She hid that mischievous lass away, buried her passion and learned to command respect, to move up in the world. She tells him about her ambition. How proud she is to run a house such as Downton. How happy she is to run it with him, and how glad she is that they have found each other. She looks at him, smiles.

She tells him about the psalm singing.

"When we went to the Scottish church, it was - difficult - to have you there." He looks hurt; she shakes her head. This is coming out all wrong. It is one thing to tell him her story, another thing entirely to let him comfort her. Their pattern is so old, so well-worn. She is so unaccustomed to being vulnerable with him. The night she wept against his chest is the only time she's come close, but even then there were no words to go with it, no explanation.

"Not _difficult_, exactly. I don't mean that, love. I've sung those psalms all my life, heard Gaelic church services all my life. Bringing you there was a bit frightening for me, to be honest. I thought you would find them too - too wild. Too Scottish."

He opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn't have words to explain how precious that morning was.

"But then you started humming," she says, smiling.

"I wanted to join you. You shared part of yourself, part of your past with me that day. I'm grateful for it."

She sighs with relief. She had hoped that was the case, really, but after twenty years of working with this man, she knows his reactions to new things are often unfavorable. She feels loved, very loved indeed, but their relationship has changed so quickly that she is still not always sure what to expect from him.

It breaks his heart that she thinks he would reject her. But he's finally starting to see this pattern in which his heart breaks, or he is weak, and she is always the one to comfort him. _It's time to change that,_ he thinks.

Her tears start as she tells him how the psalm singing used to move her when she was young. It was a respite from the week of hard work on the farm, a passionate slow thing that washed the dreariness away, filled her with bittersweet joy. She tells him of the shock as her two worlds came together - the rush of Argyll winds brought to the still air of a London summer by the swell of joined voices. The miraculous way that those songs work, with the people singing the melody in their own way, all trusting that they will get there in the end.

She tells him of long-buried dreams. There's no earth-shattering secret in her past, no secret trauma. No scandal. Just the time gone by. The chances they never took. She's loved him since they were young.

"We could have had a family together," she says softly. "I would have wanted that, with you."

"I'm so sorry. I wish I'd known."

"I wish I could have been more forward, but I couldn't very well declare myself to you. It would have been so _improper_." Her voice is bitter; the rules that govern their lives are strict, even cruel.

"I would have loved it if you had been."

"Would you have? Really? Every time I tried to get close to you, you pushed me away. You stared at the wall, or dismissed me with cruel words."

It does not occur to him to be angry for the way she's speaking, but he is afraid of her anger, afraid that she will take back her heart and go away forever. He struggles to find the right words: "My love, I've told you, I didn't know what to do. I was stupid - cowardly -"

She sighs. "I know. You were a coward. I was too proper. We missed our chance." The words would sound angry but for the sadness in her voice.

"Missed our chance - what are you saying?" He panics.

She pushes back, sits up so that she can see him. He looks so terrified there, so small, but she has no room for that right now. She blinks in frustration. He's misunderstood her; he thinks it's over between them. Daft man.

"For a _family_, Mr Carson." He looks as if she'd slapped him in the face when she says his formal name, but she surprises herself by not rushing to comfort him. She has been so patient, and he has been so apologetic. She's already accepted his apology and she's not going back on that, but her bitterness at their missed opportunities needed to be spoken. Her tears flow freely now as she weaves a beautiful dream with her words.

"You could've been a shopkeeper. I'd have made strawberry jam to sell. A few bairns in the nursery, and shepherd's pie in the oven. We would've built a beautiful life together."

"I wish I'd had the courage those many years ago. I already loved you when you were still Elsie to everyone. I would have courted you, properly, if I'd only known there was a chance. I'm so sorry."

She loves him, she does, and she's never going to leave him, but she desperately holds on to the bitterness. She takes a deep breath and then realizes that she's drawing strength from the harsh emotion, using it to close herself away from him. She decides to trust him. When she releases her breath it comes out in ragged sobs and she leans into him, her fists clenched from the grief that she finally lets go against his chest.

He's drying her tears as they come. He doesn't try to stop her; he absorbs her grief, lets it into his heart. And suddenly he realizes that this is what was missing. As she gradually relaxes into him, he hugs her close, keeps wiping away her tears, kisses the top of her head.

Truth be told, they have both been satisfied with their lives in service. They _have _built something, though the mark they've made is not as obvious as it might have been had they made children together. But it is there, in the way he offered his arm to Daisy on her wedding day. In the way she takes care of Anna, the way they all welcomed Mr Bates back home, and in the way she deals with Thomas.

When her tears have slowed, he offers her this. It's the story of the downstairs family they've built together. It may be all they've got, but they've done a bloody good job of it.

It is a new thing to hear him speak of their charges this way. She has thought of them as her family for a long time, but it's clear he's finally got there as well. She looks up at his face.

"You're not going to be cruel anymore, are you." It is not a question. He shakes his head in response.

"No, love. I've no reason to do so. I didn't have one to begin with, really."

She is relieved. She is exhausted from all of this.

They switch off the lamps and lie down together. How they both have needed these tears, needed to shed them together at last. They hold on, legs entwined, her head in the crook of his neck, his nose in her hair as he presses kisses to her forehead. They still shed tears, and they whisper words of love, regret, and comfort to one another.

After a time he falls asleep and his hold on her relaxes, but it's still marvelous - comforting, sensual - the way his hands weigh heavy on her shoulder, on her hip. How different this is from the way he used to push her away with words.

She whispers his name against his warm skin.

"Charles."

He doesn't awaken, and she's glad for it. She's never called him by his given name. Never. His name feels strange on her tongue, and she mouths it again, soundlessly.

When they wake, she will call his name and he will come to her. But for now it is time to rest. She sighs against him, breathes in his scent, relaxes into their embrace. And they sleep.

* * *

She awakens when he kisses her forehead. It's still dark, but they have left the curtains open this time and the moon shines into their room. She can feel his hand running lightly over her back through the fabric of her nightgown. Her leg is wrapped around his body and his other hand rests warm on her thigh.

She hums, stretches, and embraces him, letting her head rest in the crook of his neck again.

"Hello, you," he says with a music in his voice she hasn't heard before, but it's familiar somehow, and it's lovely.

She smiles against his neck. It's time.

"Hello, Charles." Her voice is a caress.

He tilts her chin up and kisses her slowly, full on the lips. He pleads with her to say it again.

"Charles." And she's smiling, wrapping herself around him more tightly, whispering it in his ear.

Then she's trailing kisses along his neck, across his chest, and he can't keep his hand from running up her thigh, pushing up her nightgown. His fingers trace patterns on her bare skin, and when she shivers, he stops, wraps his arms around her, and holds her to him.

"Charles, my man."

"Mmmmmm."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

She straddles him, and he hums with pleasure as she begins to undo his buttons. He's taken to sleeping with the top two open and she approves. Now she unwraps the gift of his body, planting kisses as she goes. He watches her in the soft silver light, his hands lightly resting on her legs. She can feel him growing hard beneath her and she moves away so that they can both take off the garments that keep them apart. Their clothing is scattered around them on the bed and she lies back down against him, side by side again. They both sigh with contentment, with relief. How they have missed the feeling of skin against skin.

He runs one hand over her waist, the other through her hair. He loves how she responds to his touch, moving against him as she gives little moans of pleasure.

He slides his hand over her bottom, reaches around slowly to touch her sex. It's a gentle touch, barely pressing, lightly stroking. Luxuriating in her wetness. She shifts, breaking contact momentarily to open her legs to him, and he cradles her head, kisses her thoroughly as his fingers part her again and move against her.

She is slowly being consumed, nearly falling apart as his touch drives her higher and higher, but she wants more. She stills his hand against her, draws it to her mouth and kisses each of his knuckles, then surprises him by climbing on top of him. With words and hands she makes him move up until he is leaning against the pillows, and then she is gripping the headboard, gasping, because he has caught her nipple in his mouth and is swirling his tongue around it, sucking hard, and running his hand down her front to touch her again. She shivers as his fingers slide lightly against her and he dips one inside. But then she moves his hand away and takes two of his fingertips into her mouth as she slowly lowers herself onto him, sliding against the tip of him.

He is just barely inside her and she is hovering over him, moaning with the pleasure her tiny, slow movements bring her. She sucks on his fingers and he is watching her and he is awestruck. She grips his wrist, kisses his palm, presses his hand against her breast, closes his fingers around her nipple. She rocks against him, relishing this shallow contact, and he is biting his lip to keep from thrusting into her. She is in complete control. Shuddering with it, she takes him in a little deeper, and again she moves them, up and down, moaning, letting her breath hitch. Watching his reaction. She is a sight to behold and he watches her, worships this precious woman whose love he had never hoped to deserve.

She leans over him and they are eye to eye, need and desire growing in the small space between them as she takes him a little bit deeper, kisses his lips and then, oh then he is fully inside her and they both let out a full-throated moan and they stay there, breathing together. He takes her face in his hands; he cannot stop kissing her.

She kisses both of his hands before placing them lower on her body, then leans in to him.

"Touch me, Charles. Please."

He puts his hands on either side of her where they are joined and slowly, he strokes her.

"Please touch me, I want your hands on me, I want your touch. Please, please, yes -"

Her voice starts as a whisper in his ear and as he touches her, it grows to a continuous moan and she leans back on her hands, her hair cascading around her shoulders. She stills against him, and he starts to move within her, just pushing and releasing, and she gasps at first with the sensation of it, then begins to breathe deeply, moaning with each stroke. It's a feeling she's never had before and it is deep and slow and she is in ecstasy, and he is not stopping.

They move together and she is flying higher and higher, and then she is coming but it's never been like this before: soft and calm and gentle. It goes on and on and she is quietly keening, eyes open in disbelief, one hand dancing on her thigh and the other pressed lightly against her forehead, her cheek, a finger finding its way into her mouth, then drifting down to cradle her own breast.

And she's whispering his name, his _name_; there is no one else in the world who calls him by this name and as she falls apart around him he is coming too, releasing himself into her and they both can't believe it but they've found each other again, after all the bitterness and sadness that needed to find a voice. And they're weeping with joy and release as she curls into him, and they fall side by side and wrap themselves around each other and kiss tenderly, drunk on one another, clasping hands, laughing, holding on tightly. And then, slowly, they fall asleep. Two lovers, with shared tales and open hearts. Together at long last.

* * *

TBC


	12. Chapter 12: finale

**The final chapter!**

**I figured 12 chapters would be well-tempered. Ba-dam-tssssss.**

It took a while to post this. Let's just say our dear goobers needed to plan a wedding, move house, etc etc.

Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has liked, reblogged, reviewed, followed, and favorited this story! I can't tell you how much I appreciate your reviews. They mean a lot to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You're the best.

Endless thanks to **kouw** for giving me the courage to start this whole thing, for your seemingly endless flow of ideas, for being so generous with your time and comments and reviews and friendship and conversations about all of the things. For the bairns and the best dogs to have ever dogged, and our late nights and (your) early mornings and just asdfjhldshh.

I LOVE YOU AND I LOVE THIS COMMUNITY.

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**Chapter 12. Finale**

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There is rice in her dress, in her hair. She smiles and he is smiling with her, no longer quite as worried about maintaining his stern façade of authority. Her hand in his elbow, they walk from the church to the car.

There is a special cake in the servants' hall, and wine, and the food is a step or two above their usual fare. Their belongings have already been unpacked in their small house in the village. Furniture has been installed; there is even a modern bathroom. They have been astounded at the generosity of their employers. They do not know that Mr Branson has wanted to repay her for solving his problem with Edna. That Lady Mary has Mr Carson's best interest at heart, having realized at last that he has been her champion her whole life. That she still treasures his hug and his kind, wise words during her time of deepest mourning.

The toasts have been made, the wine drunk, the cake eaten. Mr Branson drives them home. He insists, not even letting them sit in front with him. Mr Carson finds this inappropriate until his bride gives him a particular wide-eyed, amused look. The young man wants to do them this kindness, and she lets him know with that look that he had better accept it.

Mr Branson takes out the hamper that Mrs Patmore has sent along and sets it down just outside their door.

"Mr Branson, if you would allow me to speak freely -" she begins.

"Of course, Mrs - Mrs Carson." The younger man gives a little smile; the new name will take some getting used to.

"I wouldn't want you to think it improper, but I want you to know that should you ever want to join us for tea, you need only let us know. You'll always be welcome."

"Thank you, Mrs Carson. It would be very nice to join you for tea."

Mr Carson looks alarmed at this, but as he watches her speak with Mr Branson his expression softens. He thinks of how Mr Branson has always continued to call him _Mr_ Carson even though his new status would have allowed him to dispense with the title. How the young man has done his best to navigate a highly unusual change, how he never planned to ascend to the ranks of the upstairs but had it thrust upon him. How he has taken the future of Downton into his own heart. How he had acted out of love - and then lost the sweet young lady whom Mr Carson had known her entire life. Having finally given expression to his own long-hidden feelings, Mr Carson marvels at the sudden and heartfelt empathy he has for Mr Branson.

He extends his hand to the younger man, giving him a small but warm smile. They shake on it, then Mr Branson nods to Mrs Carson and gets into the car, tips his hat, and drives away.

She bites her lip, smiling at him. "That was lovely, Charles. You've surprised me."

"I suddenly feel that I... I understand him better than before."

He is beautiful to her, always, but in such moments of tenderness she stares at him, wanting to learn him by heart. She already _knows_ him by heart, yes. But the man she's known for so long has opened up parts of himself that he always used to keep guarded. The kindness in his eyes makes her reach out for him, take his face in her hands and kiss him as he bends down to her. He kisses her softly, and when the kiss becomes more heated and they're both thinking this is too immodest - _outside, where anyone could see! - _they break apart.

Mr Carson opens the door and sets the hamper down inside, but stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Just a moment, Elsie."

She's still getting used to hearing her name from his mouth.

"What is it, my lov - Oh!" In one movement, he has thrust one arm around her waist and the other under her knees and he picks her up and carries her into their home. She holds on tightly, and with her free hand she catches the door and throws it shut. Still in his arms, she removes their hats and tosses them playfully onto the sideboard, then wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses him soundly.

He carries her to the sofa and sits down. Her corset prevents her from curling into him, so she leans back into the pillows. With a grin that makes arousal shoot through her, he reaches down to raise the hem of her skirt. She closes her eyes and breathes in as the solid warm weight of his hand roams up her ankle, her calf, stroking the soft skin of her inner thigh, and then he roughly pushes her knees apart with the back of his hand. She gasps and then grins at her lover.

"Oh, yes, Charles... Charlie."

Open-mouthed at her audacity in calling him by that name, he grins and brings his other hand to the back of her head, grasps it, pulls her hair just a little as he hauls her head closer to him and kisses her hard. At the same time his hand between her legs moves upward, so slowly she moans with frustration. She tries to arch, to press herself against him, but he holds back her hair again and starts kissing behind her ear.

"My Elsie," he rumbles, "I love you."

She breathes, "I love you too, my man."

She fusses with the buttons of her dress and brings her other hand from his shoulder to his face, caressing his lips with her thumb. Then she softly pushes her fingers into his mouth and he catches them gently in his teeth, swirls his tongue around them. She retreats and he tries to reclaim her fingers but she smacks him on the cheek, just a light playful smack and he is both shocked and excited by it.

"Do that again."

She does and they look each other in the eye, each seeing the sparkling mischief in the other and loving one another the more for it. They have learned each other's bodies in the last three weeks, but they are delighted to find that there is always more to explore.

He plays with her suspenders, snapping them - gently, just enough so that she gasps. He reaches her knickers - _magical knickers, these,_ he thinks, thanking whoever had the foresight to put a slit in them. He doesn't care that they weren't necessarily made for _this_ purpose.

He slips his fingers in and it is so improper, but that's what makes it so exciting. This is all allowed; this is all private and theirs.

Roughly he hitches up her skirt and pushes her thighs apart and she lets out a small yelp, then he is stroking her, so lightly she can't stand it. Her hands dance over his shoulders, her thigh, her corseted breast and she curls as much as she can and then releases, leans back into the pillows, rocking as he moves her. She raises one knee, pushing her pelvis into his hand. He complies, stroking her harder, holding her head back by the hair and covering her neck with kisses.

She's leaving scratches on the nape of his neck. His woman is marking him, and he is glad of it.

And she's keening his name as she gets closer and closer and he makes long firm strokes, dipping inside, keeping time with her. She arches back, one hand in her hair, struggling against pins, the other madly clutching the back of the sofa. He lets go of her hair and then he's touching her with both hands and she's breathing hard and letting go and -

"- yes yes yes oh god oh yes charles YES -"

- she comes undone completely, tightening and releasing around him with breathless gasps, her body rocking as he slows his movements, staying inside her, stilled against her clit and she's sitting up, pulling him to her, gasping and keening and moving against him, and her words come rapidly -

"- again, please yes yes yes -"

- and then they dissolve into a long moan when her second orgasm, a high, wild, fleeting thing, overtakes the first.

When she can breathe again, he withdraws his fingers and looks her straight in the eye as he sucks her wetness off them, one by one. She gasps, almost embarrassed (_almost_) and collapses backward onto the cushions, joyful - the former housekeeper, now with both shoes on the sofa and not giving a damn.

He pulls her skirt down, looks at her with mock seriousness. "Would you care for tea, Mrs Hughes?"

She wrinkles her nose, looks at him with her head cocked to one side. "Really?"

He breaks character, chuckling, moves her off his lap and stands, taking a moment to stretch his back. His erection strains against his trousers. She is up in an instant, taking both of his hands in hers and pressing a hurried kiss into each palm before dropping one hand, toeing off her shoes, and dragging him upstairs with her. He barely has time to take his shoes off.

She all but throws him onto the bed and then straddles him. She speaks slowly and works quickly.

"No, Charles," _she takes off his tie,_

"I don't think" _unbuttons his waistcoat,_

"tea" _slaps his hands away,_

"will be needed" _yanks his shirt out of his trousers, unbuttons his shirt,_

"at the moment" _and gets up off of him._

"Now, get rid of those clothes before I set them on fire."

He is happy to comply with that request and he takes off everything. She makes quick work of her own clothing as well, taking out the rest of her hairpins while he turns down the covers.

He sits on the bed and holds his hands out to her. She stands between his knees and tries to reach down to touch his erection but he catches her wrist in a tight grip and brings her hand to his mouth. He runs his tongue from wrist to palm, then kisses and nips the pads of her fingers. Her other hand is on his head, tangling in his hair, pulling it a bit and he lets out a growl. The sweetness of their love mixes with the acidity and spice of their long friendship - the arguments, the sarcasm, the restraint. The result is delicious to them. They are safe, they trust one another, and together they have grown bold.

He draws her down to him just enough so that he can nibble on her lower lip, then he moves backward on the bed. He reaches out to her and she is there with him in an instant.

Then they are side by side and she is kissing him deeply, using one hand to stroke his cheek, his jaw, down his neck. She knows he likes it when she breathes hot against his ear. That he will moan deeply if she caresses his inner thighs as she does now.

He stills her hand, kisses it, and pushes her gently onto her back, her hair falling in waves on the pillow. Then, propped up on one elbow, he caresses every inch of her skin - every dip, every curve. Every line, and she is drunk on him like the first time, like their moments on the sand, their madness in the wine cellar. With heavy-lidded eyes, she watches him, moaning with pleasure. His touch is too delicious to bear in silence.

He trails his fingers over her breast and takes her hardening nipple into his mouth, sucking it lightly and releasing it. She closes her eyes, arching into his hand. He does the same with the other nipple and then she opens her eyes to watch as his beautiful big hand slides down over her hip, stroking down her inner thigh. Her breath trembles and she starts to open for him, but he is not touching her there yet and she makes a small sound of disappointment, but then his hand is roaming back over her hip to turn her toward him. She makes to kiss him, to reach for him, and he does not resist. He kisses her lovely mouth, smoothing her hair away from her face. She cups his jaw and returns the kiss as his hand moves to her waist, pulling her into him.

Then she hooks her leg over his, opening for him, pulling him over her, and he shifts so that he is in between her thighs. But he can still postpone his release and he dips his head to her breasts again, lavishing them in attention, kissing his way down her abdomen, sliding down to settle between her thighs. He spreads her open and looks up at her with a beautiful smile before sliding his tongue against her. She immediately arches against him, moaning deeply. He hums and it vibrates through her.

Somehow she knew he would be an attentive lover, but she could never have imagined that he would be like this. He gives and gives, driving her mad with pleasure over and over, waiting for his own release until she is well and truly spent.

Nothing gives him satisfaction quite like rendering this perfect service. He had never tasted a woman before that night in the wine cellar; he had only heard the baudy tales long ago. There was never the opportunity; neither was there the slowly-built longing or the burning need as there is with her. No, he had wanted to do this with her for a long time, very long indeed. And when he finally got the chance that night, he did his best for her, paying flawless attention to her every tiny movement, every little moan and intake of breath. He had had no idea that it could be like this - over and over and over - and it is a beautiful thing to feel her going to pieces again and again as he worships her with his body.

He loves feeling that smooth, slick skin against his tongue. Burying his face in that intoxicating, spicy, lingering scent. He loves falling asleep to that scent and waking up to it.

He would never say it out loud, but he thinks of how mesmerizing her sex is, with these smooth folds to slide his tongue in, this little nub here that is so easy to suck gently into his mouth and tease with his tongue. _It is all here_, he thinks, as his mouth moves with her, _such a tiny place, with so many ways to make her moan_. He wants to find every single one, and they have all night. And every day and night after that. He would never say these things out loud. Or perhaps someday he'll tell her all of it. He thinks it might embarrass her and he wouldn't want that, but he'd like her to know that this gives him joy. That he relishes the slide of her most sensitive flesh against his tongue. That he loves her scent.

Her hands are aimless and tingling and she grasps at the sheets, the pillows, one hand flitting to her breast, pinching a nipple. She's losing control and she's writhing and he moves with her as she bucks against him. His touch is soft and insistent and he never breaks contact, and she covers her mouth, biting a finger to try to control her ever-louder moans. Then she remembers that they are in their own home and she lets go. She cries out - his name, affirmations, words that fall apart in a tangle, her head thrown back in the pillows, her whole body arching in unbearable bliss. After, she sinks into the mattress, her breathing deep and desperate. Then she giggles; she actually _giggles_ at her vocalizations.

Mrs Hughes did not giggle. Mrs Carson might. Sometimes.

He looks up at her with a brilliant smile, runs a hand down his face and comes up to wrap himself around her, his chest to her back. She is still catching her breath and she rests her hand over his forearm that is wrapped around her waist.

"Thank you, Charlie," she murmurs.

He gives a quiet little chuckle and lifts her hair from her shoulder to kiss and caress her skin there. It makes her shiver.

She turns in his arms then and snakes her arm around his back, pulling herself in close to him and wrapping her leg around him..

He hesitates.

"What is it, love?" She would have concern in her voice, but she is frankly too happy to worry much. If something is wrong, they'll solve it soon enough.

"I wonder. I'd like to try something," he begins.

She turns her head toward him a bit and smiles at him from the corner of her eye. "Oh, would you now?" Her voice is soft, mock-serious, evoking sternness from the former housekeeper, and he loves her for it.

"Yes. I'd like to -"

She stops him with fingertips on his lips.

"Show me."

And he extracts himself from the embrace of her legs, dropping a kiss on her knee to make her smile. He turns her over onto her front and climbs in between her legs. He is on all fours over her, his thighs pushing hers even more firmly apart as he kisses her shoulders, her neck, and down her back.

Already the sensation of being wide open like this is enough to send a thrill through her body. She cannot move, and with this man whom she loves and trusts, she relishes the feeling. He strokes her from calves to bottom, lingering behind her knees, making her arch against the bed with a shaking sigh.

She rests her head on her arms, humming and undulating as he strokes her inner thighs, trailing near her sex that is radiating heat, so wet from three climaxes. She craves more contact and he gives it to her as she arches her back. He kneads her bottom with one firm hand while he reaches under her to touch her again. Within a few minutes she is shaking, coming undone again, cooing his name. Her voice is melodious, filled with what sounds like wonder.

He waits a few moments and then maneuvers them, pulling her up with him. He sits leaning against the headboard and she sits on his lap, her legs outside his, his erection between her bottom and his belly. She pulls her hair to one side and sighs, trembling as he nuzzles her neck, her shoulder. She gasps as he spreads her legs with his and reaches around her body. He is suffering, yes, sweetly, from the incredible sensation of her body pressing back against him, and he holds her close against him as he touches her again.

She's lost, she's home, she's got her big lovely man holding her open, her hands on his arms as he caresses and kneads her breast with one hand and steadily strokes her sex with the other - slowly, insistently, making her insane with pleasure, decreasing the pressure when he can tell she's approaching the brink.

She is reminded of the first time she discovered her ability to come over and over.

_- alone in her attic room_ - _thoughts about him - she felt so alive but also illicit, most exposed -_

In the secret cavern of the wine cellar, she had shared this with him.

Now they are married, and their private love is sheltered with all of the power those public words hold.

Several more times he pushes her over the edge like this, and she comes again and again - each time higher, lighter, faster - until she stops him and moves forward onto the bed. She goes on all fours and he rests his tip heavy against her.

"Yes, my love, come to me -" Her voice is soft, trembling with want.

And he slides inside her with a guttural moan, pulls back, and slams powerfully into her again, and she is shaking from so much release, so she drops her head, resting it on her arms in the pillows.

"Yes! Harder!" She calls to him in full voice.

He finally gives himself free rein. He is holding her hips, pounding into her and she gives as good as she gets, reaches to touch herself and comes undone again.

He loves this view but he wants to see her face, so he pulls out and she rolls onto her back, frantically kissing wherever she can reach and he sinks into her again. Her eyes are closed, she's holding on to him, meeting his thrusts as they speed up, her inner muscles clenching around him as he triggers yet another high, light, vocal climax for her, and as his movements become erratic he calls out to her -

"Elsie - look at me -"

She opens her eyes. Those incredible blue eyes he's lost himself in so many times, now looking up at him in lust and he can't hold back anymore - finally he comes with a great roar, stiffening against her, and she feels his release as he spills himself inside her.

They fall in a heap together. He is on top of her, her legs wrapped around him, holding him close as best she can with trembling limbs, slippery from sweat, from what they have made together. After a moment he slips out of her and falls to the side and they catch their breath, happy - satiated, spent, sleepy from sex and not from work.

Her arm is thrown across his chest and moves it gently as he drags himself out of bed. It has become his habit to do this for her and he gets a cloth, wets it with warm water - from _their_ sink! - and returns to clean her, gently, and then himself. She is warm and sleepy in their sheets and she barely stirs, humming when he touches her.

Returning from dealing with the cloth, he stops. He is overcome with tenderness at the sight of her sleeping. Sitting on the bed, he remembers a wish he had weeks ago on the beach, and he runs his thumb over the lip she so often bites. Touching her face with worshipful fingertips, he leans down to kiss her lips. She stirs just a tiny bit, sighs happily.

Then he climbs into bed and wraps himself around her. She lies curled into this man, sharing blankets and warmth with his big beautiful body. They are wrapped together, his skin on hers, and they sleep.

* * *

It is dark when she wakes, the moon shining into their room.

His erection is poking her in the back and she laughs softly. Her muscles are sore, but it doesn't matter. She is hungry, though, and she makes to get up, he tightens his arms around her in his sleep. He always does when she starts to move away from him and it is lovely.

When she gets up, she leaves the curtains open and looks tenderly at him. He is her man of silver and oak and stone, all melted now in sleep, beautiful in the moonlight.

She finds her dressing gown on its hook and wraps it around her naked body. In the kitchen she lights the lamp and takes bread and cheese from the hamper. She looks up when he comes in, also clad only in his dressing gown.

Biting her lip, she smiles at this sweet man, her man, sleepy and mussed with unruly hair and beautiful hands. She sets down the knife and goes to him, embracing him around the middle, and he wraps his arms around her shoulders, her head, and kisses her hair. They stand this way for several moments and then hold hands as she leads him to the table.

She retrieves dishes and glasses from the cabinet and they have their funny little midnight picnic together in the lamplight.

They hold hands as they go up the stairs. At the top, they smile at each other. They embrace again, he kisses her hands, she kisses his wrist, and they don't have to stop and they don't have to part ways. They drift into their bedroom and stand before their bed, slipping off dressing gowns. She pushes him gently to sit on the bed and leans down to kiss him, then follows him as he slides into bed. She starts with his lips and then kisses every part of him - this delicious, kind, passionate man. After trailing kisses up his thighs, she takes him into her mouth. She drives him slowly, gently mad with pleasure and takes it, swallowing when he comes. Then she pulls up the blankets and they curl together and sleep.

They wake to the late-morning sun streaming through the windows of their bedroom. Their bed is soft beneath them, and they are warm together between their own sheets, under their own shared blankets.

They are home.

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THE END

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**a/n**

They never die and are in a happy time bubble forever (thanks to chelsie dagger). Or maybe they eventually die (peacefully, painlessly, and simultaneously after a very long, very healthy and very happy life together) and then they live in paradise in kouw's fic (Prompts, Chapter 2).


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